Pine and fir, birch and larch,
Wafting wood smoke as I march,
Along the village road at night,
A waning moon, providing light,
Winter now, all cold and snow,
November's winds have ceased to blow,
Days are short, the nights are long,
From woodlands deep, echo Flicker's song,
Black Bear sleep, snug in their mountain den,
As Jack Frost's magic paints the fen,
Northern lights dance 'cross the sky,
Stars twinkle romance, while tailed comets fly,
Thin wispy cloud, drifting slow,
Throughout the valley, hanging low,
Hoar frost crystals, create a winter prize,
As hungry deer forage, I do surmise,
Broad wings extended, soaring noiseless owl,
Search the night for mice and fowl,
Then perched, a hoot, here and there,
Two hoots, then three, in quest of fare,
December travel, along this icy trail,
Bundled in my parka, I marvel at this Holy Grail.