Red-tailed hawks cry out from a high in a pine,
Shaking loose a minor blizzard below.
Spin-trails of four wheelers traced in new snow
look like new-age crop circles or the landing places of intergalactic craft.
A man feeds hay to furry Belgian horses,
his breath and theirs like locomotive steam;
the wagon and harness stand ready nearby.
A fishing boat cuts through snow at Elk Fork dam,
Blowing tiny drifts against dead trees in the lake,
white snow on dark water.
I drive slowly, recording each scene
like a photo to be developed later,
perhaps into a story,
or perhaps remembered only in passing.