Across this forest bowl of soft new snow I’ll ski one track and then be gone For I have just this day, and miles to go. Perhaps the line I choose is not my own, But set by woodland buffalo And native hunters silent on their trail; Or milk-cows filing to a barn. No matter. Down I go. Tomorrow it may be A highway for the hare, a bar To foraging field-mouse tunnels; in the thaw A line of broken straw and mud Where Bluets’ bloom is late, or slow; Perhaps in June the Queen Annes lace will show A stripe, to make a traveler wonder.