A first dusting of snow usually arrives for us sometime in October, but this year the drought persisted and Mother Nature waited until the end of November to bring a cool, clean blanket to the landscape. It wasn't a thick blanket, just enough to cut the dust, if not the drought.
The snow is dry and powdery, crunchy under the feet and a welcome addition to the landscape. It also reveals the hidden life of the prairie, the life that scurries around when we are sheltered inside from the cold, when the moonlight shines down on the creatures that inhabit the outside world.
I hear it in the early mornings with the hoot of a great horned owl, or the yelling of a disturbed pheasant in the afternoon sunlight, or the nights lying in bed when a small pack of coyotes rolls through the yard, yipping to their fellow beasts and cutting a slice of intrigue and mystery into my soul.
This morning, though, and all winter long, I will not only hear the hidden life but I will see it now that the snow has fallen. The trails of animals, though difficult to find in the summer for someone like me, are readily apparent in the winter. The prairie is alive with wandering creatures. Coyotes, rabbits, pheasants, deer, an interesting mark in the snow that I imagined was the tail of a predator bird, swooping in for the kill with his tail swiping the freshly fallen snow.
The animals march on in time to their own drums: a steady and even plod of the pheasant (though sometimes laziness kicks in as you can see them dragging their claws), a diminutive and clean step from a small creature (likely a gopher or weasel meandering across the prairie), and the uneven skip of the rabbit (more of a waltz with their da-da-da---da trail that a hop creates).
The cleanliness of a fresh snow. What a remarkable canvas it makes.
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