Whipped Cream Topping

Yesterday, after several days of rain, it snowed.  Today, the sun brightened on a new white world.   I parked the jeep at a trailhead and walked into a new creation, where never a human had trod.  I walked for hours and returned to the jeep following the only boot prints—mine.

Snow creatures greeted me along the trail, such as the trail was, with snow-covered bushes along its sides, ready to spray whipped cream down my neck if I touch them.  I’m sure the snow creatures giggled.

Some little creature with bare toes walked here before me, and overhead, skinny trees bow their heads under weight of snow.  I hear one break and wonder who is next—me, or the  little bare-toe creature.

Along the way, somewhere in mid-hike, I passed under a wedding arch, white with symbolic purity, and felt no different.  

Peaks high above, in their wedding dresses, singing angels, with cloud wings, dart in and out from behind trees.

I come to the shore of Stanton Lake in the Great Bear Wilderness and wonder why, in all these hikes, I have seen no bears, neither grizzly nor black bears, where they are reportedly quite populous.  I have not even seen a bear footprint, nor their scratching on trees, nor their droppings.  I often feel oblivious to something unseen around me, and this is only one thing.

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