Tracks

Today I fell in love with the animal tracks in the snow on my property. Every morning, I trek down to the road to retrieve my two newspapers, one from its appropriate box and the other from the driveway, wherever it may have landed. There was a fresh coat of unadulterated snow on the driveway, so it was easy to spot the evidence of nighttime animal activity. My own cat refuses to go outside in winter, so I could not ascribe any of the tracks to her. It is certainly possible that my neighbors' dogs might have carved their presence into the landscape, searching, in love and despair, for my Golden Retriever whom I had to put down a month ago. But there are so many other possibilities to explain the crisscross zigzag trails across the lawn and pavement.

I am well aware that time and temperature can alter the markings in the snow. What might have been the gentle impressions left by a fox or a deer can easily become evidence of a grizzly bear or timber wolf or (OMG!) dinosaur after expansion and remelting have taken place. So I study the prints on my way to the newspapers, trying to ascertain what creature was visiting my realm while I slept. I suppose I could procure a book of animal trackings and make a scientific assessment of the animals that may have left their mark, but I think part of falling in love is trusting in imagination and possibility. In that spirit, I choose to conjure unicorns and satyrs and perhaps an occasional dodo bird, because why not? The landscape comes alive with fur and fangs and ridiculous wing-flapping, and I am joyful in the throes of fantasy. Savoring this escape from responsibility and reality, I trudge back up the driveway, each step taking me closer to denial of the fantastic, until I find myself sitting at my table, newsprint spread out before me, slapped into a world free of dinosaurs, but lacking in imagination. Tomorrow morning, I will revisit the world of possibility, marked by bear claws and coyote scat and perhaps the tender markings of rabbits in love.