Looking Around

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.

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