Before Snow

Here a portent broods
not dread, nor fear,
only the grey
turn of the year.
Through the gaunt trees
patrolling the west
uncertain clouds bar
a vast urest.
The air broods soft
as a great cat's paw,
but the fur bodes cold
and stings like a claw.

Once the snow falls
there wil be peace. . . .
So the taut heart strains
before release.
-Sr. Mary Maura

It's only threatening rain here, the first of the season. "Only the grey turn of the year."