Across the plain the wind whines through the sage,
And boots the tumbleweeds with veering whim;
The day is dimming through the merging mists
And huddled herds head south against the rim.

On flurried wing the snowbirds, wheeling low,
In shrill, staccato chorus whir away;
In vagrant gusts the snowflakes eddy by,
And closer swirls the circling wall of gray.

Unleashed, the north wind swings his whistling whip—
The air is blinded by a whirling veil;
And riding through the maelstrom, madly-free,
Exultant shriek the demons of the gale!