The pathway through the pines

Is white

And stitched with rabbit tracks,

Pointilliste

Are slanting dots of snow.

Brown withered grasses

Barely show

And silence fills

The ambient air.

This delicacy cannot last,

Of course,

As dog prints

Mar the softness

On the stones,

When Robbie racing through

The field

Drops his slobbered stick

And purity is

Pocked

By freezing rain.