Graveyard buttocks, moonlight and snow.

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The fields circumjacent to the river that flows behind my house are awash with an excess of wet greenery. Rain has followed rain, the river has risen, and the ground is saturated. While the ground lies lush and verdant, the trees are largely leafless. They stand gaunt, grey, and vulnerable, their branches thrown up in the air like old ladies in shock upon being taken unawares by what they saw the stable boy do with the milkmaid at midnight in the graveyard. Upon later reflection of course they agreed that the stable boy's buttocks looked quite nice with the moonlight falling on them. And then above the forest a bank of low cloud lets itself be tickled by those frighted hands thrown up in shock. The tickling is all that is needed for the clouds to release a heaviness of quiet snow that soon covers over the green pastures. Drifts of white snow, a forest of bare, grey trees, and thin light from an invisible sun are all it takes for the imagination to hear the howl of a wolf and the crack of the ice that covers the river.