Scene of the Crime

The mood pervading the
winter woods is one of perfect
serenity, all is still, there is movement
nowhere, not the merest hint of an
icy blast to shuffle the faded
dessicated leaves still clinging
to the rigidly frozen branches
of the ironwoods, the immature 
beeches. The landscape lies
smothered in the tidy blanket
the morning's snowstorm blew in.
Still and chill, the afternoon
ambiance, yet there is some
peculiar dissonance in the
peacefulness. On a forest path,
the arrested activity of a grey squirrel,
bushy tail held high, tip curled,
its richly furred body attentive
to its purpose, yet rigidly still,
frozen to the spot, a macabre vision
of time and life suspended, the
creature interrupted, mission unmet,
its head vanished, gone elsewhere,
into the fiercely toothed maw of
a dread, fleet-footed predator.