Damp ground, a scattering of dry needles like careless writing. Weather warnings mention snow but only as hint, only as faint possibility: a system moving out farther north, banking around this place once called the old dominion. Nearby, broken seashells line a road named quaranta, quarantine: marking where the sick were kept indoors forty days and nights during an 1855 epidemic of yellow fever. Count yourself among the lucky if tonight you can go to sleep, face turned to morning.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.