No, life's not wholly vanished here.
You only have to look for it,
behind, before, between these leaves,
above the broken ends of branches
where one small bluebird takes its pause
and, higher up, two crows await
more flocks of darkness, which must come,
(like death, for some, but not to me)
to take the place of foliage
and caw the forest from its wake
until a flurry turns to whiteout
and winter seems to clean the slate
entirely, but not quite so:

for even then there shall be birds,
an evergreen not far away,
fresh berries barely visible,
the flashing reds of cardinals,
a wispy chimney up the road,
the plotting fox beneath a bush,
the stationary snowshoe rabbit,
a den of bear cubs fast asleep,
the frosty brook where deer appear,
take quiet sips, wait out the night,
then leave few hints they lingered there
where we regain the covered trail,
our surest steps obscured by wind,
and so few clues we passed this place.