We make long lines in the snow that tell us where we’ve been.
Branches and roots
the soft meandering whine of a donkey
the flow of water from pond through marsh into stream
the blood keeping my fingers warm.
The insistence of the crow in the highest branch of the tallest tree and the peep of a swamp sparrow hidden in the crab apple.
Shaggy donkeys and expectant sheep,
now even the older ones gobble hay
The recently shorn behave no different than those carrying six months of wool.
I know the snow will melt by noon, but still give them all a little extra.