Footsteps

There is a thin crust of ice covering the 2 to 3 inches of day-old snow.
The birds feeding on the ground out back seem to enjoy it—hopping and sliding to a stop with each bounce, their toes splayed on the glossy surface.
Such feather-weights, leaving not a trace.


I am a different story.
Thumping along the trails, each step resounding as it breaks through the surface and drops.
It’s an unusual irony—
my noisy, plodding, hollow steps spoiling the quiet stillness,
as I trod along seeking the delicately iced remnants of the fields.
Leaving in my wake, large, irregular holes.
It seems I've taken more than pictures.