Snow is falling outside right now. The house is quiet. I should be going to bed. But I got it stuck in my head--this poem I remember reading in college. I couldn't remember the whole thing, just that it was moving. It's short, but packs all the punch of good cinema. You get a sense of place, tone and theme. You get an establishing shot and action. And like Aristotle would want, you get a 3-act structure--beginning, middle, end. Damn, this is tight.

FIRST SNOW IN ALSACE

Richard Wilbur

The snow came down last night like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town with simple cloths.

Absolute snow lies rumpled on
What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.

As if it did not know they'd changed,
Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes
Fear-gutted, trustless and estranged.

The ration stacks are milky domes;
Across the ammunition pile
The snow has climbed in sparkling combs.

You think: beyond the town a mile
Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes
Of soldiers dead a little while.

Persons and persons in disguise,
Walking the new air white and fine,
Trade glances quick with shared surprise.

At children's windows, heaped, benign,
As always, winter shines the most,
And frost makes marvelous designs.

The night guard coming from his post,
Ten first-snows back in thought, walks slow
And warms him with a boyish boast:

He was the first to see the snow.