everything lead grey—heavy as storm clouds.
The trail I follow around the lake, swallowed
by mildew and mud. Branch bridges and detours
crisscross, from walkers bypassing flash floods.
A wind howls through weeping willow skeletons,
haunting my passage. Boots grow heavy with each
step. Treacherous soles threaten to betray.
Nestled among tree roots, wood ducks huddle
in sleepy pairs, wings folded—waiting.
This grey world feels like it’s paused, poised
on the edge of tomorrow—a lone yellow jonquil
fighting free of the detritus for a glimpse
of fleeting light. This is the winter of darkness.
Above me, storm clouds open. Ahead, the trail blurs.

Ryan Stone

First published at Eunoia Review December 2023