augury doggerel

Saturday, December 08, 2001

Fog, Frost, Deer

No artificer of any false Christmas scene ever dared frost the world like the world is frosted this morning outside my window.

I have been out. The fog is cold. Birds find their way through the air -- I heard their conversation and their wings -- but I saw nothing above. Everything green in summer -- grass, bushes, and trees -- has grown a half inch fur of light frost. The evergreen needle is needled again. The birch copse is a renewed white. Plain stalks of dried brown weed have become thick white pipe cleaners for old Jack Frost, who is now at home and smoking after this morning's mischief. And just now, just there, two deer, one doe and then another close behind, and both looking, moving, looking, hopping one after the other through the high frosted grass and then away, white tailed, out along the edge of the fields.


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