The Dead of the Early Morning

The world is simply put, grey. The lifeless sky with the remnant feathers of the last migrations looks down on us in laughter. The tears running down the cracked blue grass in pity blend into the foggy morning air that encompasses the streets. Like a post-apocalyptic war zone, the neighborhoods are deserted but for the occasional chimney smoke of the early birds spiraling upwards. And the steam letting off the cars as the frost hits them one by one. My blood red jacket amongst the scenery disturbs. It doesn’t belong here. I back up and return into my house where we are oh so cold from the winter crisps and light a fire. And the smoke peeks out of my chimney hesitantly and eventually joins the others in confidence.


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