It’s there
In the air,
You can sense the hawk
sweeping.
Soon,
Very soon
It will wake from its
sleeping
To bite and to nip
To claw and to rip
To haunt and to halt
In its bone-chilling
grip.
Good sense says to hide,
To keep safely inside
Secure by the fireside
To weather the tide.
But fate bids me go
On my trek through the
snow,
And suffer her wrath
As her glacial winds
blow.
And the taut winter
breeze
Brings the strong to
their knees
As autumn surrenders
To deep winter’s freeze.
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