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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