The Year the Sun Died

A page on my calendar says it's spring, but not here.

Not now.
Not since the sun died.

It's cold sitting in this man-made pit.

My two friends and I

are confined inside,

emerging every now and then to gather

frozen meat

and dead wood.

The outside is our meat locker: our storage area for animals that surrender to the absence.

Right now I guess we're solid.

How long I don't know. We've felt no wind and seen no rain for months, but … I miss the moon most of all.