When i see birches bend to left and right across the line of straighter darker trees, i like to think some boy’s been swinging them. but swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. ice-storms do that. often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. they click upon themselves as the breeze rises, and turn many-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. which lines describe the ice wrapping the tree branches?