Silent sun, uncertain light,
Screened by frosted clouds from frozen night,
sifting through the tangled forest top.
Forest's edge, the chilly brook
wanders through a path of ice.
Morning beckons; onset of another day.
Rise up, shake off the night of fitful sleep!
The sleeping herd awaits its master's call.
A sudden snort of frozen air; a bellowed wail,
antlers strike a hollow stump, echo through the wooded pall.
A lonely howl comes in reply, joined by another and then two.
Stay still, listen; death is calling—too close away.
Nature does command that morning follows night,
that snow shall shift as sand upon the meadow,
that wolves will hunt and deer will run away.
How does the fine line draw in sands of snow,
dividing law and that which is sublime?
Can a deed, in grace embraced, endure through evertime?
The does are frozen in their fright, the hungry pack surrounds.