The log rolled off the fire, leaving hot stars in its path, like a swarm of angry bees.

The wind beat tree branches against the metal roof, like the rapping of a landlord’s angry knuckles or an ex begging for another chance.

Snow slides from the roof, landing with a dull thud, while I lament about the feral cats staying warm.

It is cold outside, and the chill seeps inside like a ghost, making the old dog age.

Longing for a break in the darkness, we take to our distractions, bathing in blue electronic light.