THIS MORNING

It snowed overnight so that eveything was traced in lines of white. Every pine needle, twig, branch and railing is etched in a precariously balanced line of tiny, white snow-crystals. A trail of raccoon tracks link their way across the yard, down the steps and over the road. It was up before I was. The sun is coming out in earnest now and the day has blossomed into its full radiance. All is shimmering, and fragile and etched in white. Soon this crystaline perfection will turn to a dripping, muddy mess, but in this moment I would rather not think of that.