This stark season of chiaroscuro is leaf barren and ice crystalled.
A black-ice hardtop is a bleak gleam through transparent wind blow.
Arms and fingers, bloodless and naked, jet against the pallid sky.
Shadowy bones pierce the bitter shroud.
Lofty giants and flocks of lambs are laden down under the weight of hoary pearls.
Whisper soft, the night swarms with stinging clouds of raw alabaster ash.
The day wakes to the cry of the crow, black and mournful, harsh against the austere expanse.