Winter

The storm bashing its head outside my window is heavy with innumerable small deaths. I imagine the rain as a fleet of kamikaze droplets. Each dashes its insides to pieces against the glass leaving watery entrails smeared in rivers that slide and then run to the ground. Hard by in the woods full of the nodding of albino reads there are imaginary Squirrel Nutkins tumbling freely inside a cold coat made of winter. It is buttoned with the shells of chestnut and acorn, lined with decayed mushroom's chitinous rinds and stuffed full with the withered hands of dried leaves.