Begiled

A tree line affords temporary shelter-
a wintry abode-
hedgerows define the horizon-
the interphase of bright green winter wheat
and melancholy sky.
Just beyond- warmth, safety-
a fireside hearth and warm imbibment.
A chill descends- naked tree limbs
weave the air like spidery appendages-
some remaining leaves escape.

A red-tailed hawk glides overhead-
looking- circling- fruitlessly searching-
joining its plaintive cry to that of the wind-
a bitter wind- it begins to snow, 
a gentle snow at first- then harder.
All creatures have sought their dens-
envy them- even if you no longer feel cold-
when it starts to snow, warmth is a deception.

Gathering twilight- falling snow-
juxtaposition of field and trees-
surreal- a mystical world-
like a Currier and Ives print-
a picture that begs sit- stay and watch for
yet a little while- a sirens song.
Transfixed- slipping further into nefarious warmth-
unable to reach realities surface- 
until a not so gentle call-

a sudden squall line- wind driven sleet-
little daggers tear at bare skin- a slap in the face-
forced wakefulness, forced action-
again caressing snow-
but the spell has been broken-
go quickly-
towards a horizon now unseen-
and to that which beckons beyond.