Over the top of the banking it comes,
A white wave of tumbling, driven snow.
Out in the white glare of the open field,
Eddies swirl and dance their winter jigs,
As pines plaintively sigh from pasture’s edge.
A winging crow quickly rises and suddenly falls,
On restless air that speaks of northern climes,
With its stinging teeth and freezing blasts.
These are the gifts of the winter wind.
February 20, 1990