I long to walk the silver fields
under half-cast haloed light:
the chilled night air calls out to see
such wonders that may be revealed
unto this stagnant, indoor sight.
I step into the waiting night,
my footfall bold on crusted snow;
aberrant sound disturbs the air
as prints emboss the winter white—
such foreign-size in nature’s eyes.
Along the old stonewall I go,
the winterberries almost past;
the slightest touch, the softest brush
impressed into the powdered snow
reveal where tiny birds have fed.
I cut across toward sleeping wood
to intersect another path…
the deep and cloven prints reveal
where deer have trekked in search of food—
stripped sapling bark a tasty meal.
Now turn along the sleeping brook
to hear beneath its frozen glass
the water pulsing, pushing past—
awaiting thaw, again to dash
and splash this bed from whence it births.
And there, across this barren tract
more imprints seal another tale
two long, two short; then stroke of wings
where preying owl perchance prevailed
on snowshoe hare; small life curtailed.
Upon these silver fields I’ve trailed
over shadowed tracts I’ve roamed…
I’ve read the tales the snow’s revealed—
oh, how its stories have regaled!
Now cleave this path that leads me home.
© Ginny Brannan 2015