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
that lost their way in the storm.
A man feeds hay to winter-furred Belgian horses,
his breath and theirs rising 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