Snow on ice on snow on ice on snow form the foundation of my trail. Winter blows across the oxbows, filling in my path, as though they have never been traced, unless your eye is discerning. The crisp sun shown down to illuminate my history. I found, however, that in places the snow would not give, and my skis would only skim the surface.
When numerous large claw prints were discovered, I imagined hawks at first. Instead, a flock of turkeys stand dormant across the open field, collecting sunlight on their dark feathers, bundled together they find me of no real interest, as I continue to skate along the layers of white.
Each year the snow lays over the valley. Each year it melts. In that time many have discovered life, while others discover death. Like the seasons, we cycle.
What do we do when seasons pass before a love is discovered gone?