The creaking ice beckoned,
wanting to show how,
overnight,
it had warped itself
into a cat-tail rimmed bowl.
The beavers dredged
a splay-footed trail
resolved to repair
the responsible breach.
Industry thwarted,
no materials for repairs,
they ate,
worrying the bark
from chiseled saplings
before retreating to their ice-locked lodge.
One of the dogs
mouthing a gnawed stick
breaks through a dark patch.
She struggles,
calibrating claws’
slip and grab,
and lurches,
lurches,
and finally lurches free,
shakes and runs
to rejoin the others.
From behind an icebound rock
and blood-red barberry,
a partridge startles and whirs
an accelerating arc
into a waiting wire-mesh fence.
An explosion of feathers,
she drops to the ice,
eyes closing,
gulping air
past an un-hinged tongue,
one wing askew.
Her mate, launching south,
and without looking back,
flies.