Winter winds swept down the mountain, whipping through bare tree limbs and worming through narrow gaps in the barn walls. It moaned as if in pain from the effort. Loft doors, weakly clinging to rusty hinges, slapped against weathered boards, splintering the already tired wood.
Wild curses were lost in the maelstrom as dust devils stirred dead leaves and twigs.
Huddled inside the teetering hovel, she sat in the dank gloom hiding from the emerging evil lurking outside. As dismal as the atmosphere was outside, inside was a precarious calm. She whispered fervent wishes for the rescuing warmth of morning.
2 thoughts on “Precarious calm”
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Thank you so much, Jan.