Seven of twelve

Twelve paw prints,

in the snow,

by the porch.

They're out for the hunt.

Hungry, Ravenous,

for prey stays hidden in the Snow.


Familiarity,

turns hostile in cold hunger.

I dare not venture out,

they're friends no more.

Just together,

for a successful hunt.


Howls and Yelp,

from the backyard,

I remove the blinds,

from the wooden prison;

White grass, white trees and white ground.

Everything covered in snow,

but for the tree roots.

And fresh pawprints to the

White fence,

smeared with a bit of red.

Maybe they found what they were looking for.


Silence.


Silence is hungry.

Or maybe its the sight of red.

Some warm white bread,

with a smearing of mangled strawberries.


Snow hasn't stopped falling,

except for the dead.


Frozen leaves don't rustle,

they crack.

Announcements of those who dare move in the cold.


Seven paw prints;

Sprinting through the Snow.

A little red

replaces the eighth.


Maybe friends turned foe in winter's hunger,

One lost a leg and the other, a life.

I stay in,

A little red,

in my white stemmed goblet.


Seven of 12.

A little more than half of what was.

And all I can wonder is,

if the footprints stopped beyond the white boundary.

For does snow stop falling, but for the dead?

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