Somewhere to Land
The rain had gone quiet, and now snow came down instead. Odin pulled his hood up and stepped between the old trees. Pip walked beside him, ears up, catching flakes on his nose. The moss under Odin's boots felt like damp velvet. The first snow sat on it in little pale patches. "It's landing," Odin said. Pip sniffed the air. Above them, the lanterns of light between the branches went soft and blurry, like breath on a window.
They walked to the ferns at the edge of the hollow. The snow had bent them low, and the fronds felt cold and rough, like tiny combs. Odin lifted one with his finger. The snow slid off in a soft heap. The fern sprang up again. Pip nosed the heap and sneezed. Odin laughed and crouched down. "There," he said. "Snow needs somewhere to land too." He patted the ground flat beside the fern, a small clear place.
Further in, an old oak held its branches wide. Snow gathered along them, thick as wool. Odin put his palm on the bark. It was ridged and dry, warmer than the air. Snow had missed the spot right under the trunk, and the ground there was bare and soft. Pip circled it twice and sat down in the middle. Odin sat too, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the flakes come sideways through the lantern light. Nothing hurried. Nothing had to.
A flat stone stood near the roots, and the snow was settling on it. Odin brushed it with his mitten. Underneath, three slow beetles sat close together, shiny as seeds. Pip's ears went forward. Odin looked around and found a curl of loose bark, wide as a bowl. He leaned it over the beetles like a little roof. Snow tapped on the top of it and stayed. The beetles did not move. They did not have to.
The snow came thicker. Odin held his hands out and watched the flakes land and stay. Pip shook himself, and snow flew off his russet fur in a small white cloud. "You made room," Odin told him. Pip's tail swished. Odin pushed his hood back so the snow could land in his hair too. Everywhere he looked, something was giving the snow a place. The ferns bowed. The oak spread out. The moss opened its green pockets and let the flakes sink in.
Something big moved between the trunks, slow and careful. A deer, with snow along her back like a blanket. Odin held still. Pip held still too. The deer walked past, close enough that Odin heard her breathing, and pushed on into the dark between the lanterns of light. Odin let out his breath. Then he shuffled sideways, leaving her path clear behind him. "Snow needs somewhere to land too," he whispered. Pip leaned against his knee.
Odin found a hollow under two roots, deep as a basket. He scooped the snow out with his mitten until his fingers ached, then filled it with dry needles from under the oak. The needles were prickly first and soft after, the way a cat's ear is. He and Pip climbed in. The hollow held them both. Above, snow crossed the gaps between the branches, slow and thick and quiet.
From the hollow Odin could see a small pool, black and smooth between the stones. The snow came down onto it and vanished, flake after flake, without a sound. One flake touched the surface right in the middle and was gone. Odin watched a long time. Pip's chin slid onto his arm, warm and heavy. The forest made no noise at all except snow arriving. Odin's eyes felt slow. "Snow needs somewhere to land too," he said, quieter than before.
The flakes kept coming down through the starlight. They settled on the ferns, on the bark roof over the beetles, on the needles, on Pip's ear and on Odin's sleeve. The pool took the last few and went still. Somewhere above them, the branches shifted and let their snow slip down soft. Odin closed his eyes. The forest held its breath and kept snowing, gently, over everything that had made room.