Early this morning I lifted the window shade to check for snow. There was a little ball of fur in the front yard. Huddled near a frozen puddle in the street. He burrowed as best he could in the rocks. The sun was up, but he was still in a long, cold shadow.
For every beast of the forest is mine,
the cattle on a thousand hills.
I know every bird of the mountains,
And everything that moves in the field is mine.