Fresh tracks on the white blanket

“There is something out there, outside the window. It was uncovered this morning, and as the fresh footfalls clearly indicate, them being left there in the crisp snow“ Gun Roswell

Fresh tracks on the white blanket 

The early morning sun shine, which as per its usual was shining rather bright despite the time of the year with only so many hours to spare. Revealing though, in its wake, several interesting looking tracks clearly during the night having been made. Those fresh ones now visible from the upper window view, as the snow had covered most of the ground and hiding everything else, except those marks made a few. They looked like someone had made it out there, either in the darkness of the night or then in the early morning light, skiing across the earlier asphalted streets, but now accessible by other means. But no matter if it was a human with those wooden boards, making their way to work or perhaps just for leisure strolling the hood, or something more exotic was on the loose, like an animal with really large hoofs. Still, without proof, as to whom it had been, it was much more of a guess work now, a mystery of sorts, waiting itself to be revealed. 

Freshly made tracks in the early morning

“The ski tracks, in the freshly fallen snow, nothing lack, until the wind blows” Gun Roswell

Freshly made tracks in the early morning

Early morning, just at dawn
Something odd, into the soft white ground fall
The flakes so thin, so delicate
In beauty they will nothing lack
But a deep cut into the very core
Will make the gorgeous blanket sore
As the devices made out of plastic
Cut deep into the delicate blanket
Leaving scars a while lasting
A shadowy darkness over the softness casting
Bleeding, without healing
Until the sky breaks into tears
And healing soft flakes
The opens wounds place takes

Freshly made tracks in the snow

“The ski tracks, in the freshly fallen snow, nothing lack, until the wind blows” Gun Roswell

Freshly made tracks in the snow

Early morning, just at dawn
Something odd, into the soft white ground fall
The flakes so thin, so delicate
In beauty they will nothing lack
But a deep cut into the very core
Will make the gorgeous blanket sore
As the devices made out of plastic
Cut deep into the delicate blanket
Leaving scars a while lasting
A shadowy darkness over the softness casting
Bleeding, without healing
Until the sky breaks into tears
And healing soft flakes
The opens wounds place takes