The forest lies still in its cocooning
coverlet of snow, a benevolent sun
beaming from an azure sky wisped
on the horizon by a lazy swirl of
silvery-skeined clouds.
No wind whips bare tree
branches this clement
February mid-winter day.
The silence of the landscape
absorbs all sound but that
of a nuthatch and the
chickadees delicately
embroidering the air
practising for an early spring.
There too a woodpecker's far-off
staccato search for grubs. We
will soon enough see the fresh
white fragments leaving wide
gaps within venerable pine bark.
Our booted treads are quietly
absorbed by the snow-packed
trails as familiar as our very home.
A veritable Pied Piper gathering
of red, grey and black squirrels
pause our ramble through the ravine
eager to grasp the peanuts
we leave in familiar places
along our quotidian meander.
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