The prints are a lesson in not seeing half a sentence.

Snowshoe hare: two big hind pairs landing together, front pair between, a hop that looks—if you only catch the hind—like a tiny person walking on two feet. Folklore loves a half sentence. You find the next hop and the sentence finishes: hare.

A thinner track stitches the snow and vanishes into a tunnel: ermine, a weasel in winter white, sewing the notch together under the crust.

You grin, which surprises you. The claim-walker just became a cafeteria.

A darker shape at the tarn edge may still want a name.

You photograph the hop with your eyes, since phones are clumsy in mittens. Hind, hind, front, front, space, repeat. A walker would not skip like a comma. You say “hare” out loud to the spruce so the spruce cannot later claim you said “spirit.” The spruce does not care. That is why spruce are restful.