Not The Merest Hint

Not the merest hint of a
serene whisper that any
living thing is present in
this late afternoon forest
besides ourselves. There's a
gathering gloom as winter
daylight fades, an ephemeral
mist on the monochromatic
and still black-on-white.

We are dressed to shelter
from the cold, our boots
crushing the ice-pebbled trail.
There is wind, unleashing skeins
of still-powdery snow like
ectoplasm, from overhead
branches. The ravine's creek,
frozen and snow-dusted, boasts
the pawprints of animals we
do not see, but do see us.

The atmosphere under a
closed, silver-draped sky
mischievously addles our
expectations for the snow has
become freezing rain, tiny
silver bullets of frozen pellets,
tapping us, bouncing off onto
the white-on-black arras.