The sun is crisp and clear;
Tall grass are tufts of shadows;
The mailbox door creaks.

Still water is ice,
Twisting lines on its surface;
Lone bird cries sharply.

Old lady bending
Tries to shut frozen mailbox;
Both of them creaky.

Wind in the bright woods
Whispering a frozen tale.
Woodpecker rattles.


Shooting waves of sun
Break and fall against the trees.
Shadows rule the woods.

Bluejay in bushes
Hops deftly from branch to branch;
There's no concealment.

The dappled stream bed
Filled with sunshine and dead leaves
Dreams now of water.

The rusty mail box
Stands with its door half open
Waits to trap letters.

Circles in the ice
Go nowhere--they are frozen;
They must wait 'til Spring.

The sky is ice blue;
Not a cloud blocks the sunshine.
Where does the snow hide?