A fleeting Tolstoy-esque dream morphing into the foreboding of a pogrom.

Fresh, mildly damp autumn wind,
Found my face to be but a slight nuisance.
Along a dirt road between the woods and the village brink,
Barefoot – the loam was surprisingly warm and meek,
I half walked, half ran, wading through the slushy substance.
Fallen leaves clung to my ankles and feet.