Redpolls In The Cedars

The wind has whipped itself into a
frenzied fury, swirling ice crystals
into a stinging veil, creasing our
flesh-bared faces, creating a rosy
cheeked visage on each of us
plodding the fresh-fallen mantle
cresting the forested trails.

The great bowl of the sky is heavily
overcast, yet brilliantly lit, a vision
of whipped cream, a delicious stainless
steel bowl of dairy-pure, silver-edged
clouds. Not a bird to be seen nor heard.
Only the sound of the wind chugging
through the wavering tree tops,
clacking their frozen leaf-bare masts.

There is ice lathered thickly below
this fresh layer of snow, revealed as we
slither and slip down frozen slopes and
creek-side embankments. The luminous,
silver-white sky is briefly transformed
as a soft-gold disk is revealed, then retreats.

Snow-laden spruce branches swing
under the urgent thrust of the insistent
wind, sending a spray of sun-kissed flakes
below. Snow descends on the landscape
in lazy puffs and swirls, touching everything
in a fantasy-display of winter beauty. There!
gentle sounds of redpolls in the cedars.