Cold. The landscape is a paste
of white-wash. Covers shrubs and escape-routes.
Moles and other creatures
awakened to the fact winter has come.
Shiver. Food supply prepared.
A crow’s silhouette watches at twilight’s
finale - flutters to a newer perch.
I dwell among limbs of birch trees
their leaves descended into nature’s bosom
daring a season of chill. And survival.