The chill is in the air.
I hear the rush of wind outside my window,
Swirling, twirling, daring, without a care.
Shards of ice bounce about in limbo
Until they nick against glass panes.
The coldness seeps into your bones,
By merely listening to frozen rain
And the harsh wind that moans.
Deborah A. Bowman
BowmanAuthor and Writer/Editor 