Wind blown weary

entry for the 3/12 daily contest in The Writer's Cramp group, in honor of Hitchcock day.

From where I stood I could see everything,
the world displayed it's belly to me,
from the rear window I watched it play out.
The birds fluttered, flustered
by the chilling winds of a November morning
North by northwest it blew frigid drafts
Pounding it's notice into exposed skin,
it's wintertime again.
The man who knew too much tightened the belt of his overcoat,
walking in opposition to the icy blasts.
He bore a grimace across his time-worn face,
numbed expression born of a life grown weary,
fading enlightment allowing no shadow of a doubt
in his mind that this may be the last time
he stands to greet winter's first effort
to make the world as cold as his view of it.