Bare-branched maples and oaks,
Standing like sentinels, are outlined
In black against the sky,
All gnarled and knuckled, but proud with age.
Clouds straddle the ridge now,
Bathed in reflected yellow of the sun.
They’re gray now, edged in pale gold.
I think it’s going to snow.
Cold blasts of Canadian air slap me
Out of my reverie; birds fly faster in
Formation, hurrying towards their
Nest as I hasten back to mine.
Three beagle puppies begin to stretch and yawn
In their round little bed next to the fireplace.
Coffee waits to be served
In Grandmom’s best.
Upstairs, two tiny sleepy heads peep over the
Blanket next to my snoring husband.
It’s 7:00 am and silent and Saturday. With pure joy
I smile as I slink back to sleep.
