Still morning

Still like the illusion of death.

Leaves are finally gone from the trees.

Naked gray skeletons

They stand motionless in an empty, sunless sky.

If an alien came from above

Not knowing our planet, our patterns

She would have to take samples from the silent, stoic trees

To test them for life or for death.

So quiet they are

Bent only by the wind, warmed by the weakened sun, fed by the pure white snow

Everything coming in, nothing going out

Unaware of the short, cold winter days they sleep through.