Deep in the woods, the partridge berry creeps amongst the wiry grass and the arched ribs of the Christmas fern; and hard against the frozen ground, the eye is caught by the occasional scarlet flash of its fruit, nestled in dark evergreen leaves.  Having come down the hill, where the emerald moss betrays the small spring even in winter, I looked up at the burnished steel sky and the forest crown composed of clear ink lines against the light.  And there, in the silence, I watched the two hawks, spiral upwards, stoop and dive out of sight on unseen wind.