Traces

Great Blue Heron flying over Field

The pond and all around it are still on this frosty morning, glazed with the thinnest of crystals. Lace on the deep and dark, cold water.

From the bank, a heron flies off, never trusting of me to approach without its hurried leaving. Its long legs dragging gracelessly behind as it wrestles against gravity--then slowly overcomes it to circle widely out over the field.


The deer have left their footprints along these paths, too, the ground softer now, and badly tunneled by moles.

What little rain we have gained has barely added a drop to the basin, the edge of the water still falling far short of the cut of the land. In several places along the trail, small locusts show the rubbings of antlers.
They stand, barely alive--mangled uprights, the bark now hanging in shreds.

It all seems so empty on this cold, colorless day.

As if those who visit here are all absent, tucked away somewhere in more warmth. Safely nestled in dens and burrows.
Or flown south.
Because all I find are traces.

I found this well-trod trail leading from the barn, under long grasses, to the field.
Whose might it be?