She comes in the middle of the night, leaving behind crystal coated, frost bitten brown leaves, wilted and torn. Gossamer strands of spider webs glisten in the sun as it rises the next morning, threads caught by the thorns of bare branches grabbing at her shawl.
She is cruel, cold, swift, peeking into every crevice, nature tucking the garden in for a long nap.
Fluff your feathers, little quail, cuddle closer together stray cats, dogs you might howl, but restlessness is all you will get from her.
She spreads leaves beneath the trees using them as a quilt for warmth, blowing with a gust of wind to gather them together. Let the bare branches rustle as they reach for the sky and implore, she doesn’t listen.
Sprinkling white dust onto the fields late at night, row, after row, she is patient, and has the time to do this chore. Farmers will undo her work in the spring, but until then she is queen of the land.
Hide glossy black beetles, burrow deep grey mice, seek a warm perch wandering owl there will be nothing to eat until morning. No animal dares to venture out on a night like this, nature is busy at work.
She throws her cloak of darkness over one shoulder, allowing the moon to peek out from the cloudy atmosphere only when it pleases her. Drifts of snow build up on roads, between blades of frozen grass, covering branches, and tracks of deer. Forcing the bears into dens, and rabbits to plunder what they can find in the neighbours garden.
Nature is on the rampage, and it’s a frosty night.
