On the first day of winter
I opened the front door
to read the news
unfolded
at my doorstep.
All through the winter
I tried to unravel it
though I could barely
make heads or tails
out of this news.
All I know for sure
is that a cat left
his four paw prints
in a line up the walkway,
then landed with a pounce
neatly marked
in the freshly fallen snow,
next to the tracks
of a solitary bird.
Where the tracks disappeared,
I suppose the bird lifted off,
because I saw no fallen feather,
not even a single drop of red,
like the rose-red drop of blood
that fell on Snow White’s
mother’s lacework.
Although in retreat
the cat’s tracks
looked rather defeated,
I hope that cat
found something
to fill his belly.
I’ve chewed on this
all winter
and know only
I’m thankful
I have all my feathers.