A dark night, lit only by snow acting as soft moonlight,
Leaves one feeling the stiff air,
making itself comfortable inside one's bones.

There are no birds here, to delight with their songs.
Nor is there life- the winds pulling it from the leaves which hang so effortlessly on a night in June.

The only sound being of dry, cold air
sweeping through black branches.

With overwhelming tones of emptiness in the air,
It is a wonder that, in a few short months,
the life will be bountiful and the snow
will be missed.

C. Alexander Blum