Footprints

“They put in a new sidewalk,” my neighbor said, “and the first thing that happened was, a cat walked across the cement and left little footprints!”

My neighbor was amused. “I hope they leave them. They’re so cute!”

I thought those prints would probably survive. No one was going to take the trouble to cover up a few cat prints on the sidewalk with concrete.

A few years back, they started putting poetry on the sidewalk, laid right into the cement. I stop and read the poetry on my walk. I’ll ponder for a moment or two, then move on. I’m not great with poetry. It fills me with questions that have no answers.

I want to ask the poet, “Can you tell me the rest of the story?” But there is no more. I’m sure the poet would be disappointed in me. But I like reading the poetry anyway.

Some pavement was replaced recently, and a leaf landed on it. There remains a perfect leaf print, and I took a picture of it. If I see the cat prints, I’ll take a picture of them, too. I’m proud of that cat, leaving its mark.

Several years ago, I was camping in the northeast corner of New Mexico. I took a guided hike that showed prehistoric tracks. The tracks were made by dinosaurs when that piece of land, now desert, had been right at the edge of an ancient sea that stretched all the way to Canada. The land by the shore of this sea was jungle. The interpretive signs said there were a lot of animal tracks right there, because it was easier to walk on the beach than through the dense jungle. Just like today, creatures liked walking along the beach. The sand was dense, there was a lot of clay in it, and many of those prints were filled in and eventually turned to solid rock. The tracks on display in this park were estimated to be 200 million years old.

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