A wooded valley, cradled between the arms of
the earth, nestled in a bowl of stone and soil.
A breeze comes down from the silent heights,
sets the leaves all to sighing, last voices in their
dying, as they fluttering fall, a rain of fire, in that
cold and sleeping wood, beneath those grey and
clouded skies, in that time of winter.

The birds have flown, long time past, sensing the
advent of winter, fleeing before the storm. No
sound mars the stillness, in that sleeping silent wood,
no sound but the quiet gentle knocking of the limbs all
together, in the sway of the whistling wind. The sun shines
in pale radiance, in that bleak time of winter.

The clouds gather, grey they merge and so release their
weight of frost, down upon the sleeping land, waiting in repose.
Snow falls to weight the limbs, and bow the branches,
down towards the earth, carpeting all in a sheen of
silent white. Ice hangs down from the rocky ledges,
and from the weighty bows, shining in the pale light.
The streams have frozen, white paths through the
trackless waste, and ice covers the swift rivers over, locking
them in frozen silence, their singing laughter stilled at last.

Wind shrieks and hail comes falling, snow and ice together
descending, down from the maelstrom from which they sprung.
Blizzard roaring, blankets the wood in the arms of the earth, locking
it sure in the cold grip of winter. Now wind falls and hail abates, the
rain of snow slows and stops, and the trees rest from their knocking.
And all was still in that time of winter.