By Don Iannone
Cold dark late January afternoon.
Snow clings, like fluffy lint,
on frozen tree limbs shuddering
at the thought of three more months of winter.
Daylight fades, as afternoon gives way to evening,
and light wisps of snow now flurry their way
through openings pushed by winter's icy breath.
One lone sparrow in the distance
eyes the swaying feeder,
waiting for just the right moment
to descend for an early dinner
before darkness falls,
and the new moon rises.
My heart longs to sit
by a blazing fireplace,
nursing a stiff scotch on the rocks.