On wings of passing swans
it came, the first
wet
flakes
By noon an orchard fox could
paint its line of circled paws upon
a canvas white
The river left at four
with no goodbye, just slipped away to
where horizons lie when storms
move
in
Out of the hush
an early darkness comes and stays,
stars falling as snow for
two
long
days of night
until surrendered cedars
splay their fingers to the ground,
until for mile on mile the icicles are
teeth along the wires,
until time hesitates, then
spirals
back
to call the gone to mind
And when the storm-encrusted morning
finally dawns
we see the shapes the wind has
drawn, the drifted curl
where buntings take
their rest