I love when they come out here, the woods stir like ghosts in a graveyard when a priest arrives, I know every bark of wood, each pine cone and where it lays. I can see their smoky fires, holy night, they are up before the speckled chickens start their songs. They are hunting me, the martens, the snow makes my feet happy and it freezes theirs. Paws like a dog and senses like a cat, it won't be easy. I watch them in the dark, their lanterns look like unsteady suns in a glass world. I hear their words and aggravation, a fat one has had too much to drink, I never blink, my den is over a mile away, I've led them away, to the deer, it's a cruel world.
Daybreak, a cold night for them and a shot rings out. A fallen doe. I will trot between them on the way home, this is my forest, the canopy of thick snow clods in the trees, as briskly smart as ever, graceful like a swan.