The Bison

I sit alone on my porch conserving energy like the bison of the valley.
The cigarette burns low, warming my face while my body chills under the onslaught of the snows that leave the landscape speckled with white.
I shiver a little then readjust my rear that seems more concerned with its position in the sun-bleached, wet, whicker chair then the typewriter that sits gathering dust.
"Back to basics," I tell myself.
I take anther drag, scorning those programs I took and those stupid, backwards teachings meant to make one productive.
They don't understand that productivity means good writing, not just any scrawl.
I feel the wetness and the cold creeping up my legs as I stare off into the gray distance, watching an approaching bison, its breath and my breath coming out in wisps of white foam.
We have an understanding.