Resting idle upon the rooftops of the wind,
Waiting for the shortest of days here to end.
While above, a lone river ripples through the sky,
Tinted toward reflections to a long dark passing night.
To try, evade, the first sullen glimpses of light,
Bending around fingertips held unto the east.
The depth of your shadow looms long to fight,
Deep blue silhouettes fresh to a sun’s now feast.
Inside the sounds to a pitching deck rolling high,
Long cracking notes to the timbers calked old.
As cold the chill, slips course through our bones,
The warmth of a balaclava face just inches away.