When the sun rose this morning, I noticed something deeply troubling.
Footprints in the snow.
For the past week or so, the temperatures have climbed into the 30s and 40s, causing much of our beautiful winter snowscape to dissolve into a disgusting grey sludge. As is usual in this part of New England, Spring’s preview has turned our driveway into a muddy mess pockmarked by deep pools of rain water and snow melt. Then on Thursday, the air cooled and all that water turned to ice, making the prospect of leaving the house altogether unappealing.
To my delight, it started to snow on Friday night, a light dusting that covered the landscape with clean whiteness. But as I was admiring Winter’s last hurrah, I spotted a set of footprints on the front lawn. There were no dog prints nearby so I’m guessing they weren’t made by M. Nor do the deep manly indentions head to the front door. These prints lead straight to the living room window.
Some time between yesterday and today, some unwanted stranger has been peering into our house.
Once M’s awake, I plan to ask him about the markings. I’m hoping the prints are his, and that he was simply looking behind the bushes for a lost dog toy. Because the alternative? Well, that sends real chills down my spine.
–Update: Turns out they were M’s footprints. He created the imprints while taking this picture of the bush right in front of our living room window. Whew!
(Photo by Herman Brinkman)
