Stamping Tracks

I walked past the front gate and followed the quiet sidewalk down to the neighborhood park to stretch my legs. Near the fountain basin, a shallow puddle had settled across a sunken stone paver. I propped my twig xylophone safely against a wooden bench and stepped both feet into the cool water. Deliberately, I lifted my right foot and pressed it firmly onto the dry, pale concrete. Heel, pad, five broad toes—a bold, dark stamp appeared on the surface. I paced out five slow, measured strides forward, laying down a neat parade of wet ape tracks in a straight line. I turned around to admire the row before the morning air could fade it.