Broken Snow Tree

fallen yellow leaves

The jar of walnuts was almost empty. And the cords of wood, they were stacked. Stovepipe clean. Winter was a-coming. The coffee beans, they were still ground each morning, an hour before the sunlight curled around the mountaintop, by hand. It would be wise to crawl beneath the house and wrap the wool again, or build a solid box, around the water heater tucked below the floorboards. It was going to be cold. Thank the dog of Egypt, there were a good half dozen blankets to keep a body warm. Thank the rows of cans stored in the cupboard. Thank the garden crop of summer, and fall, and all the good things of the earth grown for eating that will be stored. All it takes is the planet’s reaching a tilt of twenty-three degrees away from the Sun, life’s fiery provider, to pull a sweater over in the chill of evening or the early blackened morning. It takes nobody to realize these things, a steadfast cycle so easily missed in the great bustle of the world’s seething metropolises or the company of others.

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