Shadows of night flee down the valley,
Chased by Sol to an unknown abode,
Fingers of light reach through the mountains,
Flowing pure and bright from a golden lode.
A time of splendor reigns with the dawn,
Moist mist rises as the day is born,
A rime of hoarfrost encases the trees,
Cold limbs stretch sunward seeking release.
Cornstalks lie crumpled in icy rows,
Yellow kernels scattered awaiting the crows,
Hilly white pastures roll back from a brook,
A red fox leaves a trail to his nook.
A lone crow swoops and calls in the corn,
Jack Frost glitters and then is gone.
Beverly G. Lougher
J. Harold Thurmond