For a while . . . a very short while, to be exact . . . wren sat still as a twig on the tree’s limb. His little black eyes looked all about and up and down, expecting to see his quarry. But all there seemed to be were a few snow flakes swirling lazily down from the skiffs of snow on the branches above him and a shredded old brown leaf blown about on the breeze.
‘Pish-tosh! Stuff and nonsense - this sitting about spying on snowflakes!’ He eyed one closely that had landed near his foot. ‘Not menacing at all,’ he declared. Wren fluffed out his feathers and hopped out to the end of the branch he’d perched on.
A ways away, he could see the forest proper. Tall balsams, dark green with snow hung boughs, sidling up the sides of the foothills. In the distance he heard the harsh
kaw! of a raven followed by several excited caws. There, in the forest, under the shadows of the trees, something of interest was going on.
Wren flitted silently from tree to tree, making his way toward where he’d heard the call . . .