horseshoe pattern prints
trails bend and cross
this first and freshest snow
surely, a rabbit;
and now in this midnight hour
the tracks have gone
so I wait, for my friend

notes… maybe the ocean is not my only muse, there is the weaving of the breeze through the trees picking off leaves in autumn, the cricket’s symphony on a late summer’s night, and this, silent, clean, pure snow, watching it fall, wrapped inside the comfort of a home, checking the window view as the snow builds up, on the railings, on the tree limbs, slowly covering everything with a white sheen blanket, the kid in me wants to run outside and roll around, the me of now, content to watch and reminisce…