After almost seven years apart, not much different from what he tracks, now, through half-foot snow. Not yet the desperation, but snow coming on, and the muffled quiet of no prey. But most of all, the serene aura, no wind, temperature dropping fast enough to feel it, the white now closing sight not far ahead. Then the gray space carved by a grove of overhanging trees, and his leaning into its welcome clearing. He steps into the triangular pole of the flake-specked circle, a coyote and young buck with felt still covering his nubby antlers completing the figure, both startled from the other's gaze by his appearance. The buck half bows its head, one coyote jowl exposes teeth, and he grips his rifle, orders his shots, thinking one, or both. Coyote settles on its haunches. Feeling foolish, he sits down, too. Finally, the deer squats. One another, at first, then trees, then the blanket beyond they almost lost themselves in. When he wakes coyote and buck are standing, watching him stumble to his feet. Coyote turns, then deer. And he knows he has turned, must turn, from the clearing onto his covered tracks.