Title: Flat-Field February Blues

It's a bastard snowfall
The sewer water, heather, clouds became empty of powder
Leaving a spear-tipped breeze hunting for surrogates
Uprooting the curdled sheets of dead, sleeping, snow
Like disgruntled farmers towards annoying weeds or varmint filled tall-grass
The far, lonesome, razorblade treeline
Wheezes subtle whispers that whimper an ambient tune
While exposed ribs of fallen doe rattle a percussive squeal
The withered air shoots shotgun shell punches
To numb ears of silent pass-byers
Slabs of cartilage, might as well be
To whom try to sing
Only frigid wind passes through
For, it's impossible to feel with the Flat-Field February Blues