Please translate!!

January Wind

The wind in January has the sound of a hundred. It can scream, it can bellow, it can whisper, it can sing a lullaby. It can roar through the bare oaks, shouting up the hillsides, and it can cacophony among the white pines rooted in the granite ledges where lichen makes strange hieroglyphics. It can whistle down the chimney and set the hearth flames to dance. On sunny days one can pause to shelter the spot and breathe the promise of spring and violets. On a lonely night in the cold it can chatter about the belt and stay there mumbling in the ice belts and deep frozen ponds.

Sometimes the January wind seems to come from the outer darkness of a distant star, making its sound remote and impersonal. It was the beginning of January in the wind, quivering day and night among semi-light flints. It was a wind that merely quivers in the trees, its force felt but not seen, its force likely to hinder almost a day if it directed. Then the east brightens, the winds relax, and the star, from which it comes, grows dim.

Sometimes the January wind is so intimate that you know it's just a little windy from the next mountain, beating leaves and spraying smoke in the chimney and whistling like a little boy with puckered lips. This makes the little fir trees tremble with joy. Its shadow box is a weather blade. It adjusts its ears and whispers jokes, crocuses and daffodils, and turns its nose into a nip and dances away.

But you never know until you hear the sound of it that the wind is here today. Or, more importantly, it will be tomorrow.