New-Fallen Snow

New-fallen snow has
generously lavished itself
on the welcoming landscape.
No interstice in bark has
been left bare on winter
tree trunks, no hidden
nook nor cranny but has
been buttered with soft,
creamy snow, gleaming
under the crown of the
silver-clouded sky.

That soft and comforting
aspect belied in the
presence of an ill-tempered
wind leaping to bite exposed
and vulnerable flesh.
Silky skeins of powdery white
drape fluidly on the chill air
under the whipping wind.
Three robins flit about;
poor warm-weather birds,
grieving their hasty arrival.

The frozen banks of the
forest creek nicely mounded
in white curbs, directing the
traffic of Mallards, churning
the frigidly defrosted water,
paddling their way diffidently
upstream where the beaver
dam stands sentry guarding
the poplars not yet fallen
to the chiseled blazes that
mark their white presence.