Winter pounced in the night,
rode in on a glacial wind,
not of snow, but ice,
gleaming teeth
in a spare sun and the onslought
of blue-gray wind. Streets
grow polished, ebon, the air
sharpens its claws.
We are not the enemy, only
frail rabbits
pinned on the battlefield.
Pennants raised defiantly
against the high city ramparts
shred themselves maniacly
in the terrible gusts.