The window pains were adorned with frosted shapes that appeared to have been etched
by some master craftsman's hand.

Icicles clung to the eves like fine crystals hanging from a chandelier.And the evening winds drifted the new fallen snow into ever changing shapes
across the frozen land.

Smoke rose from the chimney.Barely visible
against the grayish winter sky.
The smell of burning hardwood. Testament to 
the warmth inside.

The shelled husks of seeds.Strewn amids
tiny tracks,gave clue to the perpetrators identity.
Leading one to believe that the evergreen bough,
laded with snow, was the idea abode
in which the culprit could reside.

Somewhere in the distance.Across the barren fields,the audible whine of a tire.Trying no doubt,to free itself from a snowbank.
Indicative of an over zealous driver on Butchers curve.

The winter night settles in.The last of the day
finds itself to tiered to put up a struggle.
So, going to bed it falls asleep.But it does so knowing that it's deeds will preserve.