Silhouetted by moonlight,

Heads down, moving slow.

For each mouthful of bunchgrass,

They paw crusted snow. 

A lone coyote follows closely,

Behind an old mare,

Nosing where she uncovered,

A fat mouse’s lair.

Drifting with the wind,

Heads down moving slow.

For each mouthful of bunchgrass,

They paw crusted snow.

Mike Puhallo

PS, Merry Christmas!  May you winter on the southern slope where the grass is good and the wind don’t blow too hard!  

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