A chickadee, somewhere off in the conifers. A light breeze from the west now, and the dog out into it, working atop old snow.
Last week, he was here, a flash of gray like a fleeing thought, a mirage in the timber and the gun up, swinging. The sudden wham and waves of sound from down-canyon and back, silencing the chickadees, stopping the breeze. The smell of Christmas now, a tree taking the whole wad of sevens and the odor of sap filling the air and the chickadees, only temporarily silenced, taking up their chatter again.
The monochrome twinkle in conifer light gone as if it he was never there in the first place. Escaped. Just as well.
This week the little setter finds nothing except the evidence that he is still here.
Glad for that.
Mouthful of Feathers 
That was real nice – and what really matters about getting out with a gun and our dogs.
Thank you for sharing.
Dave