The snow falls gently to the ground, no breeze to push or transport it, nothing to break it upon the rocks. I look at the night sky and there are no stars, no sight of the moon or it's corona. Just darkness as little specks of light fall to the earth. I cup my hands and breath into them, I can see the mist escape from between my fingers and I hear the crunch beneath my feet. I'm not walking anywhere in particular. It's just one of those nights where I'm just walking to walk. I couldn't tell you why I walk, I know it isn't to escape. The snow melts on my nose, and it tickles my nose gently, leaving only water and the cold that it once carried. Exhaling deeply, I watch as I disrupt the journey of these wayward travelers on their way to their destination. Perhaps that's what nature does to us on a larger scale. I turn a corner and see the small stream down the block frozen solid, patterns etched upon it's surface. It's black and white, shining in the pale light of a street lamp. The temptation does come to step on it, the part of me that is chaotic and destructive, the part that understands that everything is temporary, regardless of it's timeline. But the part of me that sees the beauty in what is, and the desire to preserve it overrules the other. I'm sure if I was to walk by tomorrow night, I would see it broken or riddled with cracks. I realize though, that that is life. I look down at my feet, snowflakes catching rides upon my shoes like wandering vagabonds, ready to leap forth into a spot it likes. Looking behind myself, I see my footprints in the snow. Perhaps history is like a set of footprints, laid out behind us, ready to fade at a moments notice or be covered up. I'd rather not think of the past. I start up the hill on the road behind my home, my feet slip but I remain adamant on climbing this obstacle. Up here I can feel a slight breeze and I see the snow angle at me. So I place my hands in my pocket, and my nose in my coat and decide that I'll take a shortcut back to my home from here. I cut through the yard of the house I took piano lessons at when I was a child, it's the only way I identify the residence. My shoes begin to soak as I walk down the hill, and I can clearly see my back yard from here, haste taking hold of my steps. Damn it's cold out. I make it to the front door and look back one last time. It looks as though there are two separate tracks even though I know it's only a contiguous line. I suppose that's life. No one can tell where you're going or where you come from unless they follow the footsteps.