twilight fog 
his breath drifts away 

He gets up from the sidewalk and dusts the snow off his jeans. He picks up the worn shovel and leans it against the stone wall. He fumbles for his keys, and a swear catches in the cold air. He opens the door and stomps his brown boots on the woven mat. He unzips his puffy jacket, and it catches on his cashmere sweater. He slips into the den to catch the Manchester match. Her lamb stew wafts from the kitchen, and she calls to him. She calls to him again, but he hears nothing lying on the cold concrete.

*a drabblebun

[For details, see Haibun stories in Farrelly’s essay “The Haibun Zoo” here in MacQ.]

Bio: Colleen M. Farrelly