March snow lay thick in the pine woods.
We pushed our way through the drifts to the camping spot
next to the big rock where the cats perch and become lions.
* * *
Look!
* * *
The meltwater stream is back,
the bubbling purr of water running darkly under the ice.
Hoof prints at the bank.
They were thirsty?
Yes.
Oh, they don't have sinks.
Right.
I'll make them a place to drink.
The perfect stick is found and ice is shattered
with the fierce single-mindedness that pushes sap up through the xylem.
* * *
Twenty degrees and ten days later,
the door bangs open with a tumble of mud-soaked pajamas and sodden winter boots.
The fresh wind smell tangled up in unbrushed curls.
You need a tissue.
* * *
Look!
* * *
A pocket full, a treasure hunter's horde of small damp pebbles
fished with now-numb fingers from the fast melt stream.
It's almost over your boots now.
I fell in!
Jubilant, victorious, kissing the cold red cheek.
I'm hungry!