The Glow of Castanets

Nights are never ink black sky in winter, here. Chance of snow clouds reflect city light's peach glow, like a strange reverse negative of day instead of true darkness. Tree's limbs dance with the wind out my window... their clusters of seed pods, empty until spring, clacking as castanets. Their chattering rhythm joins the shrill cries of the attic vent, the lonely wails of the wind, the rattle of the gutter pipe come loose of it's mounts, to compose arcane melodies. Temptations surge in me to draw closer, just a peek to glimpse the creators of such inventive tunes... but I resist. Enjoying the chills, the pleasures of not knowing, seem a pleasing alternative to facing a fantasy killing reality. Like the unreal colour of this night sky, I'll not face the truth... staying instead warmly wrapped, in the fanciful cocoon of winter's midnight song.