Boughs of Winter

Puffy snowflakes swirl
as if giant hands
tipped our globe of glass.
Snug in the car
we sip lattes
move in and out of fog
slip up the narrow road
curve high along the hill.
At the crest
wintry sun breaks through
throws diamonds on the white
shows an ancient tree
toppled on a bed of boughs.
We stop to gather limbs,
breathe steam into the air,
no bird, no skiff of wind,
no soughing of the trees
break the winter silence
until from far below
a creek rustles
beneath its quilt of snow,
weaves between
the feet of massive trees
on its travel to the sea.
Northwest night sneaks down
while we retrace our route
in a car as warmly fragrant
as the perfect cedar chest.