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. :)