Footprints in Snow

I remember trudging across the farmer's field.
And I remember walking behind my father towards
the river, placing my feet in each of the snowy footprints
he had made in front of me. And I remember not uttering

a single word, as if we were a pair of trappist monks,
making our way towards some sacred temple. And, in
our own way, we were, for this was my father's chosen
element, a field of frozen water leading towards a flowing

river full of patience and the occasional salmon or trout.
At that time in my life, it was not the landscape I would have
chosen myself but, in time, I would discover one that was not
so dissimilar; my thoughts frozen, and myself sitting in silence,

                       waiting for them to thaw, and start to flow.

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