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.