Long grass is frosted,
Lying white, flat in the field.
December morning.

The brown leaves tremble;
The cold wind sweeps up the road;
Still they do not fall.

Whiteness near the trees:
Small ice patches dot the woods.
The streams are freezing.

The sky is slate gray;
Cold winds rush down the mountain;
Dry seed pods rustle.

The bare tree branches
Reach out like delicate webs
And sway in the wind.

Brown leaf on the road
Poised sharply like a dancer
Waiting for the wind.

Now it it is solid:
Phone book wedged in tree trunk.
Will it outlast tree?

The red barn stands mute;
Three white ducks float in the pond;
Timothy grass shakes.