I can imagine his head cocking to one side,

Listening, waiting, then tilting to the other.

Then hop. . . wings spread, flap, extend, force under the current

of winter air, and gone!

Was a little bird on the back step in a fleeting moment?

Did he stop and listen to our space? Was he bright and beautiful?

What kind of bird that small lives here in

winter?

I didn’t see him. He was alone, only the

snow recorded his presence.

When I am gone, what footprints will I leave

here?  In the wake of my living,

who will know where I journeyed, what I learned, who I loved, what I discovered?

I see prints everywhere, but the intentional writing,

the on-purpose, ripple-in-the-pond, the prints that

won’t melt with the seasons;

that record I choose to keep. The testament of each

soul is a

treasure.

Write yours.

Step into the ink

and run!