we three boys, gray winter day,
winds blowing down onto kansas
from snow-capped colorados

finding a berm away from the house
hiding us from mom
who might spank or laugh.

wind blew away all colors but gray
as we huddled into dead grass, frigid dirt,
for harmony, rhythm, a bit of warmth

taking turns scraping and sawing
half-strung bow over screeching strings
beneath winds’ bitter-cold keening,

unaware of our fate to search
through music, painting, poetry
for harmony, rhythm, a bit of warmth.