early, in the blue morning, with a dusting of wet snow and bitter wind, the crows make their way from their roost— their cacophony of sound traveling on the falling, thick flakes, from a height that renders them small black specks that i struggled to see, beyond the iciness that clung to my lashes
she is a black winged woman once a virgin, then a maiden, now a crone— large, formidable, standing in black velvet platform boots, wind at her back— no white horses arriving today no promises of peaceful doves and candy rainbows, a window to a haunted past and a hail storm future— she is one woman, but she is all the women of her midnight-caped clan— flying, diving, surviving— thriving
After a rain-threatening morning it is a beautiful Indian summer day, the most remarkable hitherto and equal to any of the kind. Yet we kept fires in the forenoon, the warmth not having got into the house. It is akin to sin to spend such a day in the house.