Bloody Winter

It is five a.m. and winter is coming. The books are gathering on the shelves. The moon is a curl in the sky. A dog is snoring. The cat is watching for dawn. Conversation is bottlenecked. Windows are broken here and there letting the lies fly in and out. The mail is arriving. The furnace is not running but the lights are on. Cars are dead on the lawn. It is a slaughterhouse here. The blood is thin and pale and dries in familiar patterns when it hits the air. Everyone is sleeping in small beds. Something doesn't make sense. Legs and arms are piling up. People are without voices. Their silhouettes have no eyes. Snow is waiting for the leaves to fall. It is time to prune the raspberries. Bruises form like icebergs and never go away. It is no one's birthday. The cake is ready. Arthur's daughter