Snow

In front, the snow is a clean white page, waiting for the words to be written.

Behind, a story of a man afoot begins to unfold.

The springer quarters ahead and when I cross her track I stop to look at the prints pressed into the powder, marred around the edges when her warm furry foot pulled at the edges of the cotton-candy snow.

I move on to clean snow, a new page.

Rooster tracks emerge from the sage, their edges sharp and intact as they race along a parallel story line to intersect with the quartering tracks of a springer.

I look up from the page and quicken my pace.

Dog, snow flying, shaking sage, a whir, a cackle, a long tail streams out behind mad wing beats.

A gun shot, a shout, a retrieve, an ending.

A crimson and blue bird lies on pure white snow, a single drop of blood colors the snow near a jumble of tracks from man and beast.

I pick up the bird and we move forward.

Behind, a story written in snow.

In front, a clean white page.