Sunday, December 25

christmas brunch, now quiet

And a walk out along the street in the cool crisp air, down the avenue of sycamores against a mackerel sky, under the flying hawk causing all the robins to be silent, catching mason, the little dog who slipped his collar, and along by the house with the suit of armor wrapped in christmas lights, the carols coming from the windows, people on their front stoops for a peck of fresh air, gardens with naked trees of red berries and frost-kissed wilted blooms and back home to the quiet hum of my wood stove.