A ferocious

whirling gust of high-pitched

biting

gale force wind

screeches

ripping ’round the shingled

northeast corners of a

weather-worn cape,

coiled tightly

into a sunken fury ball

a lying dog squeaks

and groans,

pressing harder

with every howl

she nuzzles ‘gainst her master’s

wooden, louvered door

fixed on the calming rhythms

of his long slow

pulling breaths

and sudden, deep, releasing sighs

yearning for the moment

when his gentle snores

will cease,

the door

will crack,

and a stormy morning light

will pierce the dark,

as another day

among her happy pack

begins