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Fox Hunt by Winslow Homer
Winslow Homer 1893

Winter sun slides beneath the treeline, crosses the final lavender mile home with strips of deep purple, pale magenta. Neither warms this sub-zero trek. Progress marked by the flash of slender ski tips through new-fallen snow, my rasping breath through a strip of wool scarf. 

Scent of musk cuts the darkness, a she-fox returning to her own warm den. Likely she welcomes the New Year with the hot spurt of an unlucky vole. My civilized stew and a sharp burgundy wait for me, for newly-kindled coals and a book by the fire.

For now, we are sisters of the snow.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2013)

Found this one in my archives, thought I’d share it here.

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