The woods are beautiful in the
snow. Well, woods are always beautiful
but, in snow, they become primeval. As
you crunch the slim tracks through trees you could imagine the wolves were running. Silent shadows, sliding past out of the
corner of your eye. Your head knows they
don’t exist but your heart smiles at their subterfuge.
But really, here and now, there are
deer, small herds of hinds. Startled, they stare, wide-eyed, then leap
away. A small dog in pursuit. But no deerhound he.
In the fields, by the river, the
drifts are deep. The water runs yet, too
fast to freeze. The gate has been
snaggled with barbed wire. A pass-knot.
I unpick, fingers numbing. Patience, caution. Winter is a time of
circumspection. No grand gestures now.
We do the small things we need to survive. Remembering ancestors huddled round the fire.
And small things please. Outside the kitchen door, a line of little icicles,
a delicate fringing. One pink flower
remains. Embraced by ice.
Back inside, I’ll build a fire. A tent of twigs. The ancient campfire. Outside the snow falls still. Inside the fire keeps
the bite of winter tamed. Just.
But before that, I pause. Type this
with one dog perched on my lap. His nose
settled between my knees. His body warm. Both of us enjoying the comfort. Wolf
turned tame. The other? Maybe not so much. :)
