The misty, cold, biting wind in winter,
Slowly oppressing many forms of life.
With the wind cutting as hard as a knife,
And the snow covering the alpine fir
The endless days pass in a slight blur.
The forms of life are hidden out of light
But yet not exactly a rife
As we see many invisible furs.
And as you walk up a trail in the park,
You’ll see footprints in the dark
Of many scurrying animals
As they return to their comfort holes.
When the sun peaks up and shines brightly,
It signals the promise of warmer times.