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?