a word picture from the past... and yet, like the spirit of today

Sunlight touches
the grey-rough bark
There is no warmth
just hard light
If Picasso has painted this
one would see chunks
of thin barely yellow
shadow-slashes scarring
a dusky-dull coat

Scrubby twigs spread their brittle webs
chicken-foot scales hanging in wait
to scratch an unsuspecting

The light shifts this harsh perspective
becomes just another
hiding for one more winter
the food for flocks