mini-prose

Hyper-resonated snow crystals keep on falling down. I can hear the Earl Grey over bubbling on the tea machine. The ear muffs are hanging on the brass hook by the drafty window and outside is a harsh wonder. Goretex bodysuit is there but won't look at me. I am in my three layers of beige warmers and the LPs are stacked against the heavy 1890's footstool. Where are the toadstools? Spores slumbering in the ice. Crystal tears of the ancient world and the sun not melting the branches but just skeptically glinting. Wood is chopped and stacked in a small pile by a rusty, frozen Toyota Camary the color rouge. The only sound that works is the sound of tear stained timber with strings strung across and strummed in the 70's. Dry bread. Stack and load. Moonlit. Doesn't matter. Crispy corners and wild eagles.