The Widow Wyile walks briskly
legs arms and poles slicing
the crisping cold
December air billowing
swirling and slashing
in its wintry dusk dance
across the dykes, the basin
and river waters and the darkening
fields trees and town

The western sky glows with shifting streaks
orange red pink and purple
everything is in motion
and yet she feels a sense of stillness
as she zips along
she stops to become a part of that
a momentary kin of trees
but is soon compelled to movement
by the cutting currents of icy air 

She scans the fields in hope of seeing
the fox who had been there
but no longer is
though she finds the fading light
and snapping winds are thrilling
she turns around before the wondrous
orange sun ball has fully sunk from view 

The ground is lumpy and crunchy
sodden mud flash frozen
provides propelling grip
as the wind now pushes her from behind
she glances over her right shoulder
loath to let go the view of the setting sun
dark purple streaks in a steel and graphite sky
lit with the receding semi-circle of red
she carries on ahead
glancing to the waters on her left
spots another glowing sliver of a circle
to the east and wonders
what that could be
some canvas tent or translucent structure
lit from within?

A fire? Could it be a fire?
It’s too large to be the moon
orange-rose and huge like the setting sun
but slowly as she walks toward
the too bright lights of town
it rises
like an air-filled wobble edged balloon
a giant round of artisanal cheese
a gorgeous wonder of its own
with knowing eyes and slightly
smiling look
the beautiful grandmother light
of night
good round friend rising
now the sun is set
the moon soars slowly upward
as the Widow Wyile
glides across the crisp near-night dykes
her heart joyfully tripping
with glee