At three in the morning,
The mists hang, mixing
With the grass,
An unscaled rainforest,
Fog intertwined with the blades
Delicately, like the last puzzle piece
Being placed.
A flashlight shines on a snowflake--
The first of the season--
As it spirals slowly,
Slipping silently by stretched branches,
Stopping softly on the green.
The light shuts off,
A door lock clicks,
And a plume of black erupts
From a chimney.

These are the signs
Of a slow deterioration
Into what is expected to be.