It must be a bird. The ribbed crescents its wings.
I’ve seen them before, those soft scratchings in the snow. I’ve always imagined the feathers lightly brushing the dusty surface of fresh snow barely making a mark, as the bird spreads its wings for balance.
But I don’t really know how the story behind the tracks.
It does always seem a wonder to find this delicate signature undisturbed. Like a fleeting fossil, I know it won’t last long. Soon someone will trample it, the wind will erase it or falling snow will fill it in.