While Aki seeks scent, I read the stories written on this meadow in snow by wind, paws, and the diminutive hooves of a fawn. When the little dog alerted near some very fresh hare tracks. I assumed that she was provoked more by rabbity smells than the sight of the tracks. Earlier I skied over river otter tracks near their newly frozen slough. Now I find myself drawn to a trail, the width of thin belt, pounded in by tiny paws. I imagine a mice platoon, walking upright, carrying the smallest rifles, marching single file between spruce root forts. Aki, who lacks the necessary imagination to build a fantasy mice army, shows amazing patience while I stand musing. Looking over my shoulder I see our tracks, poodle and skier, and wonder at the mess we made of snow unblemished by dog or man.