On snowy days, on wintry nights, the snowflakes shine like suns, and the stars, are coldly bright. The frost creeps over broken stones, and around the trunks of trees. The birds are all asleep now, the bears have sought their den, and absent from the creaking branches, the squirrels chattering speech. And though many lie sleeping, awaiting the life of spring, still some lie, frosted, the worms will wait till spring. Deep within the wintry woods, a cabin sits, still and quiet, no light within. The snow covers the door, and the walls are buried 'neath glittering shroud of creeping frost, while all around the trees whisper sadly to the moaning call of frosty wind. Against one such sits a man alone. Black his flesh, his eyes shriveled, his hands claws that reach, vainly, towards departed life. The wind howls through bare, black trees, and shifts the coverlet of snow that smothers the land, the green forgotten, 'neath shroud of white.