Backed into partial shelter of a red-berried, leafless bush, a snowshoe rabbit, white on white of snow, has waited quietly while falling flakes erased his tracks. His footprints do not show His eyes look forward, patient to be where he rests in safety; his antennae-ears listen, do not expect, agree that here, silent in snow, is the right place to be. And if a man, at distance, on a walk this winter day, should (aimless) go in the direction of the snowshoe rabbit (white hidden by white) he'd glimpse no more than a low brown bush, some dots of berries, snow stretching white and bare . . . And even if armed to hunt, his keenest sight would miss the snowshoe hare.