"A winter mourning"
The larking of the crows, Dawn: The dark days
The tree's splitting shadow, obscure, silent
Whips of black, crack the dull morning daze
The breaking light crimson, almost violent
The cold air, sharp as a knife
Reeds stand indifferent, fixed in frost
Awaiting judgment, awaiting the scythe
The scene: in color warm, in essence lost.
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