The weathered planks are colorless, a pasty gray if you had to assign them color.
The cold handle is flaked with brownish-red rust running from metal to wood.
The wire fence is much the same.
Both freezing to the fingers touch with winter’s whips of death.
The enclosure is of no use without something live to hold.
The place of small hearts beating with no room to run brings sadness.
With each crashing swing of the sledge, I feel lighter with faith.