Silence.

A spell of misdirection

broken softly by

the questions of an owl.

Trees are quiet sentinels

dressed in shades of monochrome

beneath a lunar lamp,

ranked in accidental fashion

out to margins of perception,

gnarled arms stretched wide

to gather gleaming shawls,

spun of random falling flakes.

Ruts of antique wheels,

faint depressions in new snow,

run straight across this clearing,

then they curve away to gone

into the deeper forest land.

Lowly posts of gray do stand

bereft of fallen fence rails,

wearing stovepipe hats of white.

Wild January winds will never

pass  the standing sentries,

or break this gentle glamour.

Silence.

Casey Mack (2005)