The snow sparkles this morning under a blue, cloudless sky. You don’t need to ask, “Who goes there?” when powder-puff snow blankets the ground. Every last footstep of every last creature leaves an imprint in the snow. There is no sneaking about in the snow.
Down the lane I stumble on the sad, feathery grave of a flicker. One of the many flickers which grace our woods has met its demise. With no tracks of a fox, bob cat, coyote, or cougar in sight, a goshawk, or merlin, or such forest bird of prey must have snagged the poor flicker. To sneak about on a snowy day you must fly.
