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
evergreen
hiding for one more winter
the food for flocks