Something Big Circled Just Once

Fresh snow tells tales.

At first light, as the entire horizon turns the color of my hand and light reaches into the valley, I venture out.

I am first met with scandal—the tiny, zig-zagging prints of a field mouse.  The mouse mostly remained atop the snow.  The trail disorderly, but ranging widely.

Under my birdfeeder, something bigger circled just once.  Blue holes in white snow.  A fox.  The fox prints angle straight in from the open prairie, and veer out to the nearest gulch after rounding the birdfeeder.

As a younger man, I supposed I could follow such tracks and eventually catch the animal standing somewhere in its last prints.

Today, I suppose I should go back inside and drink one more cup of coffee.

I like to keep my mornings simple.

And one more thing.  I see where a big bird flew in, touched down, and padded around below my Mayday tree.  Likely a magpie.  A predawn visitation of no importance.  The bird waddled about only a little, leaving trident impressions in the snow, before sky-jumping away again.

Oh, yes, and now the prints of my slippers.  Out from the house and soon back in.

In a few hours, after I have sipped the last of my coffee, the prints will melt back into grass and concrete and earth.  Tomorrow, if we are all lucky, we see our prints anew.

—Mitchell Hegman