By Beatrice M. Hanson
The snow began falling
In the darkness of the night
Early morning looked out upon
A dazzling spread of soft-puffed white.
Not a ripple marred its smoothness
Not the serenity of its fall.
A world seemingly without life -
No growth, no movement, no sound.
Until I glanced upon my doorstep
Before the sun arose
To see a line of prints made
By the crooked twig-like claws
Of a tiny, feathered bird.
This creature in the world of white,
Made the difference
Between statues and life.
He had risen from his snowy tracks
To mount the clear cold air
Leaving his scratchy signature behind
To tell us he'd been there!
