pale horses moving through trees, dappled with darkness, the ghosts of a blizzard, their hoofbeats an echo of glaciers scraping at the roots of the earth. unseen traces drag winter behind them like a great roaring, billowing wagon: ice-laden, frost-swollen, lead-grey as november clouds.
mist rising from snow into warm air like the ghost of winter still moored.
rainstorms exhale clouds that roll over mountains like smoke from wet lips.
northern shrike, hunting smaller birds. some flee, some freeze, all reject that death.
a single snowflake then a dozen, a million: mighty avalanche.
battalions of twigs standing stalwart, wreath'd in frost like smoke in sunlight.
we break into the forest, some dogs and i. we are a pack, one organism with loll-eared, slaver-jawed parts. our paws smash crunching leaves, our feet crush brittle twigs. we charge into the fray, our hunting grins feral our eyes focused miles away, ready to bay, to howl, to laugh. we are a pack.