Last night driving home on wet Bangor downtown streets listening to the Flaming Lips sing, “Soon your bad days will end,” a small white rabbit darted from the winter grime of sidewalks in front of my car, bouncing fast hysterical, in front of another car, so nearly made dead, up a hill and into a church yard. No camouflage of true snow, it was the first white rabbit I’ve seen.
Today I came to the boat landing and found a path leading across the river to the opposite island. A path made by snowshoes over the ice and snow. I knew it was made by my friend who has a camp deep within the forest, and saw his sled packed with blankets and gear. Scared to cross the iced river alone, though remembering him saying it is perfectly safe in that spot, my curiosity drove me as I sprinted over his tracks and onto the island. I was met by perfect silence and trees taller and thicker than anywhere on the mainland. Snow fell softly, welcoming me into a pristine realm where only animals walk.