As clouds trail writhing entrails overhead,
and red sun’s splinters sting the twilight sky,
the still earth hunkers grim in quiet gloom,
asleep from winter’s whispered lullaby.

The wet soil peeks from quilts of sprinkled leaves,
and water flows black marble in chill streams,
as breezes nuzzle nodding cypress boughs,
and dozing oaks murmur their ancient dreams.

The shrillness of the loon’s last lonely call,
arises, striking through the wilderness,
and echoes over mudflats silent mass,
a spirit crying out into the mists.

The majesty of winter well dilutes
the power of her siblings’ best salutes.