This Winter Day

No mistaking this for anything
but a winter day with intention.
The sky a steel-grey inverted
cauldron of icy water-vapour
descending in lazy, complex clumps
on the landscape of the forest.

But wait; weather is not at all
predictable, dull and lazy. New
instructions were issued for
tiny, white pellets to begin
raining on the placid scene.

Those icy balls pinging on our
jackets and clinging tenaciously
to tree trunks and ourselves. So
cold out there, the steady grip of
winter clenching its fist about us,
shrinking the marrow of our bones.

Above, a cloud of racketing crows
black against the pewter sky
circling over the rigid treeline,
their daft defiance colouring
the monochromatic atmosphere.

No wind this frigid winter day.
We are immensely grateful. For
the clean, crisp air clipping shut
our nostrils. For the peaceful
solitude. For the white blanket

muffling the crunch of our boots.
For the trees standing reliant
sentry over this season of sleep.