She finishes her last stanza
Fingers clicking away at her keyboard.
stopping momentarily, then fingering for a thermos of roasted corn tea.
Warmth.
The window on her right is lined with picturesque snow flakes
An image akin to a watercolor landscape of the Canadian Rockies
Projected inside the antique wooden frame
Awe.
She stretches, raising her arms over her head
Taking a sharp intake of cool, frosty air
Stands up and rolls her sleeves, revealing a small blackbird on her forearm.
Duty.
For hours she swings at the towering spruce trees in the great mass of green needles
Always collecting the fallen logs, never leaving any behind
Only taking what she needs
Respect.
She hauls her small logging sled back to the nearby cabin
Occasionally, her neighbors have told her to trade it off for one made of metals and plastics
She had politely declined then, that it was from a friend long ago, but now her mind wanders over to the aging stacks of faded magazines featuring the shiniest and smoothest snowmobiles.
Wistful.
The evening turns purple, and the snow begins to fall much more slowly
She stares up into the sky and watches the darkened clouds illuminate with stars dancing around the bowl-shaped moon
She’s lived in this small cabin all her life, but those flashes of light still mesmerize her to this day
Wonder.
Comments