by Hal Borland
December is a blizzard in Wyoming and a gale on the lakes, and the Berkshires frosted like a plate of cupcakes.
It is bare trees and evergreens.
It is wrestling weed stems and a gleam of partridgeberry on the hillside, a cluster of checkerberries, and winter greens in the thin woodland.
It is ground pine, older than the hills where it grows, and it is a seedling maple from two years ago clinging to one last scarlet leaf.
It is a stiff-tailed young squirrel scrambling up an oak tree, and it is a mask-faced coon in the cornfield listening for the hounds.
It is ice on the pond, lichen on the rock, a flock of chickadees at the dooryard feeder.