I used to have a book that identified animal tracks in the snow:
the rabbit’s back-facing vault, the hawk’s sprawl, the dragging tail of a mouse,
all crisp as shadows under the full moon.
Books don’t prepare you for the way the moon
goes behind a cloud, mud settles, snow
drifts over the battle of hawk and mouse.
It’s not enough to know what the track of a mouse
should look like, or that even the new moon
makes a round imprint among the stars, a stony boot in fresh snow.
I looked for patterns in the snow; you traced the shape of the mouse in the moon.