Cold gripped the woods,
Tiny fractals of snow sliding along on the breeze,
Snow like powdered sugar against the landscape.

"I cant take him."
A young woman,
Who made mistakes,
Set a basket below the old pine tree.

New hands,
Tiny with youth,
And cooing voices,
Escaped the woven confinement.

In the cold,
Of the snow,
And the dark,
Of the oaken wood,
The baby cried.

Lips became blue,
Skin turned white.

A dark figure approached,
Picking up the crying bundle,
"Quiet now,
Before the wolves get you."