My car was coated in ice, accordingly, the roads appeared suspect. Nonetheless, it was Saturday (free time) and this was the first snow–though light–which layered the grounds of the season. I mine as well, I thought.
The roads were slow, but the scenery was eye-catching; just like how the spring blossoming of the trees delivers fullness, the snow delivers richness to the landscape. I pulled over several times, wetting my feet and bathing myself in the wintry air.
As usual, the roads led me to my go-to walking trail. A blanket of snow covered the trail and two paths of footsteps were imprinted on top. I meandered down as well, aiming to quiet my mind and walk in silence. A couple-hundred yards down, I turned around, analyzing the path I carved out. My footprints curved in and out, hooking to the river and then falling out. I compared it to the other footprints: they were straight, aiming right down the path.
Do I always walk or wander like this, I thought. I’m occupied gazing up and around, thus swaying in various directions. These strolls for me are not considered exercise or revolved around reaching a finish line, rather, it’s merely to be outside.
I moseyed back to the beginning and cut across the bridge. Down beneath me, the water flooded around the stagnant boulders. With that, the darkish water blended into a trippy, labyrinth pattern in this fifteen-foot section, then it smoothed out again. I stood there, entranced by nature’s showing, then I gandered up and around: a fog settled in on top of the mountain, a light sun sat behind the clouds, the melting snow dripped from the trees, and the river flowed in meanders. I was just looking around.