OUR SHADOWS MOVE LONG LEGS

Snowshoeing ravines
we wind carefully down
where streams rush headlong
in summer. Tree roots hang
icicled like hoary whiskers
like your beard with its exhaust
glistening back the sun.

Animal tracks lead a crisscross
a braillework of animal lore
and we stop briefly to study
speculate, wonder if they're
watching us awkwarding
their byways. The trees

stand like dolmens, stark
against the white plain;
among them great elms
sieved by woodpeckers
creaking murderously
in the wind. Ghosts of

summer whisper from beeches
and redpolls flicker
from branch to branch as
chickadees dart and tease
us with their silly name.

It's cold enough so
our snowshoes creak and
groan on the wind-tufted snow
yet we plod on
red-cheeked but comfortable
in our cocoon of energy.

Clouds string the horizon
as the setting sun
illuminates and warms
the trail we leave behind;
animating it like
a giant caterpillar.