The pines are silent, weighed with snows,
All needle black and evening rose.
The days mere stars between the nights
Beneath the trees it’s rarely light.
Aurora haunted foxes cross
The lichens crisp and sphagnum moss,
They scent the age-old meeting sights:
Another generation fights.
It’s been a heavy day up high,
And buntings flitter from the sky:
A scattered dance of fawn and white,
Their misting calls of mountain heights.
This shadow garden deep in frost:
Its ancient ways and tracks are lost.