Snow falls without a whisper,
Quieter than the hush of a spider spinning silk.
The pines groan softly under their draperies of white, dark branches, frozen with the lace of winter ice.
This world of frozen blues and shadowed icicles hangs still, caught on a trailing thread of time.
But within this lifeless, heartless, cold exterior, Life and heart and warmth remain.
The huff of crystallised breath, hissing warm under trees
Limbs quicksilver and swift, hearts fast and pounding.
Each muzzle raised to scent the air,
Reading the tale of the wind.
Stopping only long enough to call to the Moon,
Their long-lost silver sister who drifts so far away.