Settling in 
for a long winter's night,
I know not what happens 
beyond the back or barn door. 

Until I do
for by the incisor marks
left upon the attached shed floor,
I eye the work of a gnawer. 

Scat, too, has happened
in this space, 
comma shaped 
and even a bit of a necklace connection observed. 

Out the door 
I tromp through the snow
sighting a pattern
that only a sashayer would know.

And so I follow, 
under branches, 
around trees and over stonewalls, 
from one neighbor's yard to the next.

Into the woods,
the critter leads the way,
and I go forth, 
wondering where we might glimpse each other. 

Upon a corner section
of a stone wall,
where rocks are arranged in a triangular fashion,
my heart beats faster when I spy hoar frost.

I observe not 
the works of a porcupine den as I'd hoped,
but rather evidence of another
who shares these woods with us. 

And then upon a branch
I behold the other, 
creator of the midden,
a Red Squirrel disguised as a gray for such was its coloring. 

Because I'd wandered
into our back forty, 
others make known their presence, 
in the form of mouse and weasel prints. 

And back by the barn,
the snow has been tussled,
by not one, 
but at least three species: porcupine, squirrel, and deer.

Mostly, it is the deer
who have disturbed the ground,
scratching away as they do,
in search of acorns. 

As much as I'm scanning
up and down for mammal sign, 
the beauty of these past three days 
does not escape me. 

I'm grateful for the brisk air,
sunshine and lack of breeze, 
and for snowflakes still on display,
and others melting into decorative gems. 

I'm grateful
to be one who notices,
trying to discern 
what has happened and will happen next. 

I'm grateful 
to recognize others
who contemplate as well, 
peering upon the world from on high, yet hidden. 

And I'm most grateful
for the one who knows more than the rest of us,
the Tree Spirit,
an exemplary at keeping watch.