Winter Quarters

WINTER QUARTERS

By Shannon Brooks

The last quarter of winter kisses the

horizon through a cool layer of fog, 

the hour when light begins to seep around 

the blackout shades.

The time of day when you can’t tell

the difference between bats and birds,

their silhouettes against the pastel light.

The morning starts to softly break the sky, 

a whisper calling to the winged creatures,

singing both an overture and lullaby.

This poem was written in the car as I was passing the snow-painted forests that framed the desolate-looking crop fields (much like this picture).