In a field
Lit with snow
Acres long and silent:

Till the brush of a fox
Just caught by light,
The call of a bird,
Alone in sight,
The crackle of clouds
Amongst a herd
Of cows like those below
Like snow.

But other than that,
Nothing.

Except the whisper of wind
So nearly unheard but still felt
Behind the backs of grass
Or as the sky turns,
A cool whip and a chill
A shiver and a thrill

On this silent field
Where everything is still.