Wintry wind whips bare and bitter cherry tree, Near its tip sways last spring's robin's nest. Yesterday forty black birds, starlings I suppose, Gathered for one last frozen meal from it's boughs. Last night's gray agents brought their white blanket; Covering hill and field in crisp powdered splendor. Years ago, this cover would remain for a month or more, Cooling ground beneath and preparing spring's rich mud. Yet this is now, Snow is fleeting, Next year more so, I suppose, Gone. Faster than before.