His Vignette

Standing between the trees,
their ranks in silence
lined the hillside,
bracken and twigs cracked
sharply underfoot
if I moved.  Smell the
air: fragrant pine drifting green-brown
then the slight breeze dropped,
the air became still, suspenseful,
watchful, waiting
and as I looked up, waiting
for I knew not what,
the first few snowflakes
began to fall, settling
gently on my beard, my arm,
and all the trees
were shrouding
as the white
sky descended to kiss and
blurr my face.

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