The path I made in the snow three days ago
had been used. A neighbor? I mused.
Several of them, it turns out.
Toe-tipped deer, their hooves leaving
unmistakable marks.
My path on the tote road –
that angles off the main road –
goes up over the embankment made by the plow.
The deer had followed my footsteps,
and I am following theirs, along what is now
our path.
Occasionally their sharp, pivoting prints
meander off to the side, perhaps to browse.
Those tracks, in deeper snow, have melted slightly,
resembling the boot prints of small children.
I believed so the other day –
delighted a human neighbor
had brought their child out to play –
until I realized, they hadn’t.
The tote road was built long before I came along.
Did loggers follow an old route or create anew?
Paths peel off the tote road, run by the river,
fallen trees soon removed by all-terrain types.
But – before skidders and sledders?
The Sokokis? Or did they follow trails
made by deer, or moose, or woolly mammoths?
Whose path am I following?