January snow had brought release from a dirty sky and the persistent dribbles of a wet December
Warm sun burned its way past the cadre of wet trees, sentinels illuminating each crystal of the season’s first snow, infusing each droplet of the melt with the deceit of a false spring.
Tracks. Elk tracks, they slid downhill revealing the black results of last winter’s decay, an assault on an otherwise virginal tableau.
Each tarry hoof print was rimmed by a gaudy show of autumn leaves, gold, orange, red and yellow, and arrogant, leaves not yet resigned to their fate, sandwiched between the lustrous ice and the inevitable muck below. He imagined himself part of a majestic parade of beasts, assaulting the silence, scarring the snow, making their way through an endless dream, unaware of the darkness below.
It was not an easy thing to raise his gaze and continue his journey, and all though he finally left scene, he was determined to take the image with him.
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