Mostly Cloudy

I brought watercolors to the river;
a chair to face the day,
a warm winter sky,
a sun's arc beginning to rise.

There were very few colors on the other shore.

Only the grey of dormant lives,
an army of empty trees
marching their static silence.

No sound.

Only the hammer of a hungry bird.

I notice movement across the mirror:
a lone coyote looking back at me.