Things are a ghostly blanch under the pale moonlight drifting down through the trees before a berserk and viciously orange sunrise, the purple bluff and its meanness demanding the thaw of Spring, each leaf that brushes a deer's face is reminiscent of loss and sadness in the strange dark, the fugitive Fox, ruthless in her killing of a hen on a farm, the savor of silence, cat-eyed and sly, the silvering branches and the old owl watches intently, a pristine white and icy creation, a girl in a lamp lit-up window, a frail thief, the sound of a barely beating cold heart, the listless drum a devout time-keeper for the slow-dying terminally-ill night, the colorless frost on the shivering grass.