Cross-country skiing on Sugarhouse Road. Pickup tracks over old ski tracks. Rabbit, deer, titmouse, porcupine, squirrel all have crossed this path. Chickadees calling to each other, flitting from tree to tree.
A grouse feather in the trail. Then another. And another, blowing in the chill morning breeze. A line of them, growing thicker, stretching for a hundred yards along the road and then halfway up the bank to the base of a dormant tree. All around the tree, feathers in snow, a wing, a bit of intestine. Signs of struggle, but no tracks. Not a single track leading to the tree or away, not even the footprint of the grouse, not even a clear brush of wing from the hawk or owl that must have pounced on its fat prey from above, or dropped the captive from the air. No blood or bone left from the feast; no sign of where the hunter flew. Just a heap of feathers blowing, one by one, one by one, down the hill, telling the tale.
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