SanzoBrat

Winter is the dark wool of trench coats;  a thousand strange animals     transforming people into birds and shadows,          as they walk through darkened streets.

Pigeons Clothed in storm clouds; Blustery-winter-sunset-sky-feathers. With shimmering necklaces of hummingbirds Strung about their throats, They strut and preen, and coo and trill, And declare, "I am more beautiful then you."

I remember... I remember small things. Snippets of memories that shine brighter then life; I remember hiking with my dad, one summer when it was hot enough to make me go swimming in a glacier-fed river with all my clothes on. I remember what the water felt like- so cold, but perfect with the sun beating down on us, and crystal clear. I could see the speckles on the round, rabbit sized rocks on the riverbed, and every single bubble Buster's paws made as he swam beside me. I remember shrieking with laughter, alive as I'll ever be in the midst of hurricane force winds; the thrill of standing in the gust and watching a day-light, storm-tossed s

It was like something out of a movie – or doctor who; down lane, exiting from arrivals, was a man. He wasn't very remarkable: average height, brown hair, little bit on the skinny side. No, the man wasn't too note worthy- but the toaster. Now, that toaster, it was a find. Brilliant white, with big black spots, it was the toaster to end all toasters. It was the Branjolina of toasters, the Picasso, the, well, if it's idolised around the globe, and fawned on by the media, then this toaster was it. And it knew it. The tall skinny guy was just a butler, someone to carry it's elegant form where it needed to go; someone to keep the dainty white

Mother Tongue. As a child, her voice imprinted on me. It was unique, special- it meant safety, and warmth, comfort and sustenance. As I grew, hers would be the voice that taught me words, that spoke softly in times of distress, and firmly in disobedience. I grew up to her voice, her words and phrases; her laughter, her smiles, her jokes and her curses. Even as I aged, her voice grew with me; it became sad, it became tired, but it still held joy. There were hard years, and those times it reflected in her; determination, spine. Will. She had everything she needed, even when we had little; her voice, ever constant, was a verbal reflection of h

winter, burning white shades of blue shadowed by the prints of a cat soft impressions in powdered snow.