One, two, three: there are tiny footprints in the snow.
Quickstep, little allegro, polka, one might reasonably suppose she has just danced here.
Capricious and unpredictable, she appears only when it pleases her, like a spirited snowflake, light-footed and brisk. She leaps from branch to branch; at the very moment your gaze believes it has caught her, giggling, prancing, she vanishes again, skipping from twig to twig with shameless delight.
The long train swaying behind her, seems to be an idea that one never quite seizes at once: always on the tip of the tongue, almost grasped, yet forever engraved upon the memory once encountered.
Her eyes, curious and bright as they are, and her head tilted just so. And when, at last, you suppose she has consented to rest, she is already off elsewhere, mischievous, restless, hungry for novelty.
She follows the wind and takes no notice of frost. She plays, then disappears; only a discreet warmth and a pleasing scent linger behind.
It is proof enough that a little darling may unsettle the whole of winter. Perhaps one day, a single presence will be enough to make her slow her pace.
At last, that presence is fortunate enough to hold her in the hollow of his hands and say, affectionate,
‘You are like a little bird.’
