the frost makes white patterns, lines and dots on my window - the sky is completely black, no light it is silent all around except for the sudden high scream of a creature out there in the cold: a call, a cry, pain and injury, a normal bark at the sky? how would a human know I can picture the stiff and silent trees, the loom of the dark hill, a shape in gloom in here my heater and blanket are on, shawl around my shoulders my eyes gleam my heart forlornnext poem