Hard Ground

The air is a mouthful of needles today,

stripping the moisture right out of the throat.

The sky is a flat and industrial gray,

the color of a cheap, polyester coat.

There’s a sparrow frozen in the birdbath ice,

its feathers stiff and coated in rime.

Nature isn't particularly nice

when it decides to run out of time.

I look at my boots and the white salt crust,

mountain ranges mapped out on the toe.

Everything turns into brittle and dust

when the mercury decides to go low.