flying dogs

It's the season of the flying dogs
misunderstod
misfit mongrels of winter
bark as bad as the bite
rough as the walnut's silence
pensive and remorseful
should have flown south to warmer climes
yet here we lie
folded--felted
    into the snap & chill of a Tuesday
Oh!

to be a cardinal content as the moon
contrast abiding
current riding
feathered crimson against this day
and the sound of fleeing sorrow
steadfast the hounds of frost
determined
misguided

they circle to find the
sun