A Measly Drop of Spring

We have little food. There is no warmth. Our cabin's barely standing. It's an endless, frigid winter.

Outside, there is a soft cry. In the crystal snow shards, there shivers a tiny life. Trembling, it sinks into the white needles with each step.

I gather a measly handful of scraps and I set it out for that tiny life. You have a thing for strays, my darling tells me.

The food is gone the following morning. I set out a little more. We can't even keep our bellies full, my darling tells me.

The next morning, the plate is clean again. Spring will arrive; soon, the snow will melt. We can offer a little more help. You don't know if that stray is the one eating. We can't afford to feed the whole forest, my darling tells me. I set out more food, though I know she's right.

On the fourth morning, I see the precious scraps being hastily gobbled by the plump hunting dog that lives at the neighboring cabin. He wags his tail, his ears perk up. I close the curtain and put no food out.

One week later, my boot rests atop something spongy beneath the layers of snow. It's that tiny life. The cold has claimed another victim.

Our sacrifice didn't make a difference. That could soon be us, my darling despairs.

Even an eternal winter can only last for so long, I say. Until spring finds us, our kindness will be our warmth.