The frost-tinged wind has blown the treetops bare.
The leafy remnant are more crumbly browns than shades of fire.
Witching goblin, ghostly ghoul retreat to their respective lair.
Cattail valleys echo with the wandering wa-wa choir.
Gunshot signals hunter's boon and hind's resignation
In the evening there is woodsmoke on the crackling, whistling wind.
Cricket and frog relinquish the night to Owl's inquiring conversation
Who, they ask, who, yet believe that Winter is the end?