And it feels good to be cold in this bed at 1:35 in the afternoon on a Sunday. No one knows the true depth of my heart—this gray day. The rain lingers, the clouds linger, like annoying guests at a birthday party in a back yard on a Saturday. They ate all the fried chicken and drank most of the beer. Annoying people leave a bad taste in my soul.

Back to being cold… Like a refrigerator.

A bent crow over a winter forest. The trees are bare of all they wear. Now but black limbs, thick and thin. Directionless, wayward, reaching to the sky. They break up the vision so as not to be just one great plate of white on the horizon and up.

The crow cries out. A belfry of loneliness. A quiet crunching of a walk in the woods. No sun today. That makes me a sad star.

By

Aaron Echoes August