WINTER 



KAY December was 

 passing. 



When phantom 

 frosts come each 

 night and seal the 

 surface of the pools 

 with crystal bars, 

 and edge the creek 

 with spears, and coat 

 the upper rails of 

 the old fence with 

 '-white, the season of rest and sleep is 

 not far off. Each day the dilatory sun 

 slowly rises to cast its waning smile 

 upon a world dressed in a symphony of 

 brown. Each day it hastens to its filmy 

 bed in the west as if reluctant to en- 

 croach, even for so short a time, upon 

 these resting fields and woods. 



One dull, frosty morning the rear 

 guard of migrants came trumpeting 

 down the gray pathway of the skies, 

 proclaiming the near approach of Win- 

 ter and setting strange echoes adrift 

 upon the awakening world. Flying low, 

 83 



