A splash of scattering wind wags the brittle stalks of winter bleached grasses

and sends bald tree tops sweeping slow arcs against the cloud dashing sky.

The old ash behind me breathes easy with the slow dozing rhythm

of these waiting and watching January woods.

Snowdrops gather to whisper secret stories,

mythical tales of springtime’s approach,

while the deeper digging roots

keep this restless old trunk

from just wandering off

leaving only the crow,

and a wonder

of what else could be lurking

in the wintering woods