Saturday and wintry at last. Snowy morning fields always evoke this lovely poem for me, by Czeslaw Milosz:
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
--Wilno, Poland (now Vilnius, Lithuania), 1936
Czeslaw Milosz, from "The Collected Poems 1931-1987" (The Ecco Press, 1988)