The View Before Breakfast

Snow dabs the contours of a squinting face, fleeting, fleecy, light: the fingerprints of a curious element. Footsteps press markers around the lanes, leave an easy pace of clue.
We took the longer route today.
Mr is cycling, another circuit that will cross with this. 

Will he make it back unscuffed?
Dog pads at any pace she pleases.
Under the snow flat ice hides.
At Treniffle we see his tyre tracks, they make a snake print.
Dog follows scent clues, down the steep dip, up the long steep other side.
Slowly running is easier, should that be a surprise?
Not in theory but this is not theory, it is experience.
Laughter flows openly, it curls warm and visible and here is the very top of the hill, here is the view to stop for. Dog sniffs, pulls a face like smiling.
The tyre tracks pull in under our feet. Exactly here.

At home, coffee brews; heat seeps from the Rayburn’s bright coals. Mr fries two eggs.
‘Did you go round the triangle?’ He shakes the pan.
‘Did you see my footprints?’
He nods, reaches for the pepper. I ask him:
‘Did you stop on the hill, to look over to Carzantic? See the white peaks in the distance?’
‘Yes, just at the blocked in gate-‘
‘I know, I saw the tracks!’
Mr laughs.
A plate fumble gives Dog extra breakfast.
We have coffee and half an egg sandwich each.
She sleeps on the sofa, replete.