By morning gobs of wet, gauzy snow will bend everything down. January has opened the door on an Ice Age that finds us standing around, small with our shovels.

Another storm hangs over us, filling in trampled snow and cleared walkways.

For days I have stepped through old footprints across a little ridge beneath Hemlock bows so heavy with snow that they touched the ground; unlike the warmer months, winter keeps track of everything that moves by.

Like a faceless thing on wooden legs I drag through the forest following yesterday's trail.

________________________________

I told a friend that most good writing is a lot of erasing, then trimming up what's left. Sometimes it's just a few bent shavings of thoughts, like today.