There's frost on the grass;
There's thin ice near the still stream.
First of December.

Bare bushes rustle;
Ten tiny birds scoot around
Then whoosh to a tree.

The stream flows softly
And tinkles by the road side.
I see a black ghost.

Sun spreads on the fields
Slowly emerging from the clouds,
Like a second dawn.

The trees are bare now
Revealing hidden houses.
Winter strips the veils.

Black dog trots ahead;
He's taking his morning walk.
I follow behind.

A loud whining buzz:
The house takes on a new face.
The smell of cut wood.

Grizzled gray dog barks;
Young black Lab stops in his tracks.
Mexican stand off.

Shadows on the road;
Wind hums softly in my ears.
Then a gray cloud comes.

The woods are humming;
The wind plays between the trees;
The leaves are racing.

The three mailboxes
Stand side by side--one open
Like a hungry mouth.