Winter Day

Crows, black arrows in the pewter
vault of the winter sky, angrily
circling far-off pinnacles -
masts of snow-laden conifers;
their rough caws circling the
frigid winter air. An hapless owl
no doubt, whose quiet predatory
presence insults the murder's
singular territorial imperative.

The knife-edge of icy wind
sharpens upon our bare cheeks.
The trail we crunch through
bristles with the windfall of
twigs, branches. A veil of
ectoplasmic-like snow lazily
descends, resembling a
ghastly presence, revealed by
the unwonted presence of an
interloper, in a haunted place.

This has been an unproductive
year for seeds and conifer cones.
Birds struggle in their search for
winter sustenance. Yet glaring-white
shards of tree, chipped relentlessly
by the ram-hard head of a pileated
woodpecker informs not all are
affected by a rogue season's lack.

Beams of light begin to creep
tentatively through tree branches
even while flurries dot the landscape
gently falling around us. Above, a bright
halo attempts to forge its presence
through the clouds. The creek,
released from icy bondage, runs
silently along snowed banks.

Where tracks of forest creatures
intrigue toward speculation.