Spring is coming, sighed the wind. Soon hot summer will be nigh, and you will sleep again. Stay in this place, where the white snow falls always and the bright stars wheel in the dark sky. Stay where the moon is ringed with mist, and the ice is black underfoot.

A spattering of cold wet wind drove under Thomas’s coat as he headed up the driveway toward the back of the clubhouse. The tangle of trees in the dark ravine behind the nine-hole course was a graveyard of lost balls. He slid down the icy hill to the bottom, crunching through leaves and pushing aside the underbrush.

(Selections from my short story “Lonely Cries The Winter Wind.”)


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