newly snow-laden, a birch branch
bends lower still when a squirrel lands,
a briefly-lowered drawbridge
to an adjacent maple.

only because i close my eyes
i hear the following: the elfin squeak
of a branch hinging back into place,
the flump of newly-loosened snow
plummeting into unbroken snowbank,
a patter of scurrying paws.

i reopen my eyes to winter's white noise,
the blinding sound of sun on snow
pooling in footprints, pealing between trees,
every evergreen needle
an unaligned antenna.

the squirrel spirals the maple's trunk,
hops across snow like a skipped stone,
shyly shadowing me as i walk
backwards along the path, watching.
a patch of gray ruffles its ears,
tail a muffled question mark,
eyes like unfilled birdfeeders.

similarly, i hear soft footsteps
before noticing her there,
gray coat, white mittens, white hat,
a fringe of orange hair. she pauses
when she sees me, seems to
mentally make a small adjustment,
as if tapping a compass
to spur a sleepy needle.

on the opposite side of the glade
i close my eyes, slowly orbit
towards the chalet, listening
for the silence of satellites.

she eclipses me by the belvedere,
slips a small silver camera from her purse, says,
excuse me could you please take my picture

later, at a table in the chalet
between sips of tea from a paper cup:
this is my first time here. i followed you
because you knew where we were going.