A solitary matriarch sweeps
past the boles of sentries--
whose skeletal branches creak,
rubbing the low leaden bellies
of soggy clouds.  The air moans
in pleasure, in spectral discourse.

Dead birds in the snow drifts
frozen fast in rapture,
stare with fixed attention,
spared the pain of hunger,
stiff black feet are curled from
clutching at aborted salvation.

Through the blue vailing shadows,
winter's queen regards us,
frost-pale hair, flesh, and eyes,
long nails like ice knives--
She dances in a whirl of wind
drawn from the desolate sky.

Huddled in shuttered shelter,
families feed their chimneys,
bespelled by leaping flames
and mugs of apple cider.
Carefully unaware of the
visitor at the door.

Ignored, the fey spirit
is drawn into the distance;
a howl claws the eventide
as a starved hunter offers praise
before swallowing bloody chunks
of murdered rabbit.