Silence can always be broken by the sound

Of footsteps walking over frozen ground
In winter when the melancholy trees
Stand abject and let their branches freeze


All around him the branches of the trees had frozen solid, reaching out white fingers of glass that looked as if they would shatter in any breeze, or chime like musical bells. The world looked strangely magical.

It'll work, if God, wind, leads, ice, snow, and all the hells of this damned frozen land are willing.

Snow flurries began to fall and they swirled around people's legs like house cats. It was magical, this snow globe world.

The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire snow-fields and ice-hung forests. It seemed to have traversed interminable leagues of frozen silence, filling them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge against the same bitter black-and-white landscape.

("The Triumph Of The Night")

Gripped with bitter cold, ice-locked, vision blurred with dense fog. The cold sun is just setting bashing some colder lavender hill. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and field, as it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt. The road is soaked with rain and sparkling under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of symphony. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.