Disclaimer: This is kind of a cliché poem but I had fun writing it.
Air sharp as glass, ice scraping flesh
Breath escaping in frosty plumes
Feet frozen, struggling up hill to the place where the wood lies
Snow glows bluish, dark shapes fracturing it’s crust, frozen in escape
Stillness, snow holding tightly to all sound but the travelers
Constellations assume their poses, looking back through time with patient curiosity, eyes extinguished for millenia
Flashlights swing right to left and back, searching
Pausing, putting down the wood bag; catching breath
One stands watch while the other sets to work
Listening; sharp crack, blade falling
Wood rending under blows
Load bundled, nervous glances; fears better left unvoiced
Back to light, too far away
Not too quick, not wanting to look behind
Home close, steps quicken in urgency
Silent reassurances; nothing is there
A sound from the darkness, wood flung aside, clattering
All thoughts of fire forgotten
In flight, flashlights abandoned
Stairs, porch, door flung open, in
Dawn brings light, safety promised
Door opens, cautious glance
Long shadows cast by an early sun reveal clawed tracks in the snow
Stories From Off The Grid. 