Winter. Frozen earth crunches beneath my boots. My breath lingers in front of my face. And the wind is bitter cold.
Bare branches reach heavenward in prayer to the blanket of clouds that promises a blessing of snow. The faintest strip of grass demarks the roadway from the woods, yet the road leads me on.
Better days I’ve left behind me. My pack is heavy on my shoulders; my soles are worn to nothing. Perhaps better days will come in the miles ahead.
Wherever I stop, people ask me where I’m going. The road is here; I’m going to follow it.