Look down upon swept hills, white creeks,
The bright snow softly drifts upon
Obscuring below its glistening sheen
The rocks, the trees, the brushy gullies.

How odd to me, in Tucson here,
Desert, brown, beige, no more,
Occluded with the powder-down
But not for long, thermometers rise.

Wet, dull, dim, dripping liquid,
Flying from the sky on high,
Rinsing out the glorious desert
Once robed in purest clothing white.