First Snow

Alone, I have been where dim snow falls on craggy-bordered fields brown-stubble corn pokes where white shines white and stone be stone as ground shrugs its remorse through sable-limbed spruce that reaches for evening's cover and fen calls with ancient tongue to what lives alone in calm, cold water sometimes, I hear its whisper tired and long gathered in evening's dry hue nudged by a warm Santa Ana.