Tracks
by Joan Leotta
Snow, like white chalk dust
from a gray sky slate, fills my yard in last
night's storm. Straggler flakes whirl around in
the morning chill as I step outside. I realize I
am the first person to walk in this snow, the
first to leave tracks in the inches-deep crunchy
precipitation. The sudden thrill of exploration
strikes my soul. I am blazing a trail through
cold, unfeeling, unforgiving territory. Others
will step in my footsteps to find their way (and
save their shoes). Upon reaching my destination,
I look back. Windblown snow is filling in my
footsteps. My tracks may not serve others.
However, the yellow bus stop sign provides a
visible goal even in the morning fog. Tracks
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