First Snow

The swale dipped below the hill.  

Children slid down, boots kicking light,  

their laughter trailing like loose threads.  

Snow clung to them, wet and bright.  

A hawk wheeled above, watching—  

its shadow brushed their woven tracks.  

A boy leapt, tumbling into white.  

The others cheered as he climbed back.  

The light grew thin, the sky bruised.  

Still, they lingered, their red mittens  

smeared with cold earth and ice.  

No clock in their hearts, no rules.  

Later, the slope bore their shapes.  

Empty now, but the echoes held—  

ghosts laughing in a silver dusk,  

marking the frost with wild footprints.