An Essayby David Kline
It snowed the night before last and ended yesterday around noon. Now a pure white blanket four inches deep covers the countryside. After breakfast I set out to see what my wild neighbors have been up to.
Few things are so exhilarating as a winter walk when the temperature is in the teens or low twenties. There’s enough bite in the air to keep you wanting to move and yet not enough cold to cause discomfort, and many creatures will have written a tale in the snow with their tracks. Ernest Thompson Seton called the animal tracks “the oldest known writing on earth.”