The wind is a bruiser

this morning

forcing me to aperture hooding scarf

around hounded face,

transforming me to Little Red.

Will you huff and puff, bully wolf,

storm the whorled-bastion I have formed

from wool,

deep cowling warmth

conch-shelling tentacle-nose –

All the better to eat me, eh?

Why is it I knew that's what you'd say?