a thick morning fog
turns to frost on pine and spruce:
breath-frozen beauty

cold, white haze in air
desaturating colors
I long to see sun

green limbs sag tiredly
struggling to hold their burdens
of wet, heavy snow

black satin ruckus:
guests devour feast of carnage.
a murder of crows

I stand at crossroads.
Three birds come investigate.
They leave, unamused.

bald eagle flapping
talons grasp weak spire of spruce
cannot find balance

The cold burns my face.
It lets me know I’m alive.
It purifies me.

steam from industry
embraces trees in the cold
a beautiful hoar

river to my left
in tracks of one before me
through hallway of pines