COLD HANDS

A centurion wind marched over

tree tops

with a fluster of noise,

disturbing green leaves, pulling a few away,

tumbling through branches, scattering them on the ground

to early defeat.

Sparrows rushed as if on fire,

lifting and landing, searching for cover

then up and out for another place.

Wide streams of wind rushed flat onto windows,

rattling the obstacle so bold it its way.

Into dark evening sounds increased, like voices

creeping under doors towards

hands that seek warmth.

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