the very breath of pheasants perched there fogged
the lonesome crow cackled but produces no sound
their throats parched and frozen
from icicles that dripped disquiet

the still air stops the hands of father time
from turning
to signal the coming of winter

the trickling stream wept
tiny ruby-red tears
the glitters obscures
the jutting pebbles
that would scrape and wound

howls of herrings
that hover to devour
stinking sorrow-spiced
rotten corrupted scabs
that scatters over scarred ground.

the albatross croaked,
high-pitched shrieks dwarfs
the owl's softly-spoken diatribes
to spread his wings and left his nest
the owl shuddered
but watched his plight
her fathomless eyes
now blank
the surfaces bleaker
than the pond's shine that
reflects everything.

the stench of anguish spoke volumes
but the woods stay silent.

the trees have got nothing more to say
to each other

their roots now furrowed deeper
as if to seek safety
from the misery that colours
the tender sky like aurora borealis.

but snow melts
and shoots will make grass
that covers everything with green.

now to wait.
and wait.