The thicket that the birds have left adjusts to songs of cold and deft
grace notes of snow ....
The drum-like blow
of wind and thin
as bow on string of violin,
the whine and twang of weather scraping
reed stems and boughs. Earth is reshaping
itself from nightengale and thrush
to the strict hush
of drifts. It draws
sharply, starkly from the pause
that closes in
where wings have been
another music - the ringing arc
of shadows, clouds, and early dark.