The year begins in quiet silver,
a world edged with frost
and breath that hangs like a promise
in the cold morning air.
An Airedale steps out,
steady and unbothered,
as if winter were made
for dogs with brave hearts
and wiry coats.
The grass crackles beneath him,
each blade tipped with ice,
and the first light of the day
catches on his whiskers
like scattered stars.
There is dignity in him
a calm acceptance
of the season’s hush,
a patience that says
this too is part of the year’s turning.
And sometimes,
in the stillness,
there’s a flicker of memory,
a soft footfall from winters past,
a reminder of the dogs
who walked this path before.
He pauses,
nose lifted to the pale sky,
as if acknowledging them,
as if carrying their warmth
into the coldest month.
Then he moves on,
frost on his beard,
purpose in his stride,
ushering January forward
one crisp breath at a time.