Fox Sitting In The Snow

It was in the dark of December, a time I remember, when the days had turned longer for certain, outside the window curtain, snow was falling in the night, in the morning I walked in the dark of dawn, out of the night into the light, out of the high plains and foothills up onto the mountain, where there was a fox for me to see, both of us sitting in the snow, and before I saw it go,  falling flakes surrounded us, whitening the ground, and in the solitude, quiet was the only sound.