Autumn N. Hall
Funneling the last of the seed into the feeder, she sighs. With a gnarled hand, she hoists, surprised once again by how heavy it seems. Her worn sheepskin slippers make a shushing sound as she shuffles across the cabin deck, avoiding the rotting boards out of habit. Wisps of her long white hair swirl in the snow-scented air.
till he’s blue
The wind-whipped bough bounces, teasing the copper hook out of reach. Gathering her flannel gown around her, she steps up onto the bottom deck rail. The top rail bruises her hip as she leans, stretching the feeder toward the hook.
the crack of an axe
The sun crests the eastern ridge. Her open eyes follow its rising light. The jay cocks his crested head, considering the scattered seed.
a tea kettle keens
fill with snow