Blades...Grey-brown....
Crunch.
Coated with cold powdered sugar....
Flawless crystals bruise under heavy black boots.
He knows, but turns anyhow, wanting to see.
He tracks each step from the sleeping house to his feet...
each footfall altering forever the untouched frost...
bending the dormant grass...
making hollows of dark grey-green...
Under each tread.
Under each tread.
Only his steps, his alone.
No one else follows to deepen the imprints...
to alter the stamp with size or shape...
to disturb the singular path.
He turns back.
Agatha waits, her Jersey coat russet in delicate morning light.
She waits.
Enduring...sedate...clouds of warm breath blooming into the cold, still pasture.
She waits.
He inhales, smiles, walks on...in the frozen daybreak.
He alone owns the stillness here.
He alone dares break the frost.
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