Empty snow covered streets stretch out before me as I walk, blizzard sweeping in swiftly, white streaks covering sidewalks, sun yawning irritably in the cold. A cedar waxwing swoops down and lands on a low branch in the Japanese maple, calling out loudly in her sighing whistle, a trill that rises in a high pitch. A small fox darts out, a flame of orange and silver. He leaps, sinks in the snow, rebounds, runs and takes cover under a bush, paws and tail leaving a trail. A rabbit springs from under the crabapple tree, stops, ponders, pivots, criss-crosses the yard and disappears, leaving a stripe of small oval tracks. The waxwing circles and sings, landing in the crabapple tree, shaking the snow, unfurling a spray of chilly mist in my face. She cocks her crested head at me, laughs, and flies, wings and body a blur of soft brown and gray. I turn around and head home. I look back and there is no trace of the fox or the rabbit. Our tracks have already been covered. But the waxwing keeps gliding, calling out like a town crier: Travel not advised.
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Your imagery offers a beautiful contrast with the snow-covered parking lot, trees and houses around me. The only wild life--a brave walker leaning into the snow.
That poem is SO good. Just right for right now!