December, and the Light is Low and Cutting

Sky filters through scant woods printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks. Only December has this light, it both scours and forages, it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam. A December wind, sings its own death song. Ice hangs unseen upon the air. The woodland acres shimmer, then tremble upon a long fading note, one that ushers in last rites and other mixed blessings.