In the fist of winter,
I watch a creature move—
a faint figure buried in snow,
its paw bent, awkward,
each step a question of survival—
its body’s response to the harsh cold.

I feel the force of it,
feral and raw,
a silent ache gnawing at my bones—
how the frigid cold carves so deep.

The creature stumbles, pauses—
I imagine the bone, splintered
beneath its skin, how it bites
when it stretches forward,
not with any grace, but with reluctance.

I follow its moves—
the sharp shudder of it
against the barren slopes.
Its eyes are glassy, dark—
questioning, perhaps,
if winter might be kinder elsewhere.

I wonder if the creature knows—
if it feels it too—
how some wounds never heal,
they only sleep waiting.
It looks back, it limps away,
its silhouette smaller
against the wide mouth of the wind.
I will leave some food out,
tonight just in case—
not only for it, but for me too,
for the part of me
that waits by the door,
calling out for someone
to come out from the cold.