Winter Morning

When aspen leaves are crisp to the touch
and the winter air carries little bundles of ice
crystals playfully stinging my cheeks, I snug a
neck scarf down into the collar of my
favorite blue jacket, slip earmuffs over
already tingling ears, and take my
first step onto the new carpet of
nightly snow. See how smooth it runs
down the hill and into the valley.
Unblemished. Undulating.
Not printed by human step or animal trail.
That stand of elegant pines, see how they
stretch themselves to touch the billows of low
slung clouds. Proud pines, indeed.

Does the ice-layered snow cry out or
is that just the crunch, crackle
sound of a boot’s first staggering step into
the white disappearance?
At the echoes of snap and crack, tiny ice
particles shimmer in the air, a pine quivers and
releases an avalanche from her branches, and
the early sun sends shafts of tender light over
the mountain ridge, dressing the sleepy village in
brilliant winter ermine robes.

Far down the sloping valley, a brown bear and her
two cubs, searching for early morning prey,
stop abruptly and stand motionless as the
sounds of crunch, crunch float from the
mountain on currents of crystal air.