The bright blues of summer/fall have turned into the cool blues of winter. I love the way the sun reflects off the snow. I’ve spent too much time in the city without realizing constant hum. The silence of the cottage trail rung in my ears. I felt present to the moment.
I looked down to realize that I wasn’t the first one to trod in the snow.
Turkeys have had their frolic before me. I missed a good time. I followed their trail through the trees and back onto the path. There were some big and some small, all in the fray together. Some got a cold soak in the puddles beneath the snow, the defined prints telling their story. I wished I was with them.
My prints tell another part of the story, interweaving with the arrows that point my way.
“We cannot see ourselves as given or already ‘consummated’ for then we would be static ‘finalized,’ in Bakhtin’s word, we would be dead. In order to live, to keep writing the narrative of existence, we must always face a blank page, but we never write by ourselves.”
– Julia Kasdorf, The Body and the Book