Dressed in sweat pants and a hooded sweat shirt, I walk across the road and into the park. A new covering of snow transformed the woods into a mysterious new world. I walked into the darkness and oddly enough, I felt no fear. This was an unexpected feeling. Usually I am afraid of the woods at night, but not this night.

    Tonight, a new layer of snow covers everything. New snow brings safety. I know there is no one else in the park. I am alone. I fear nothing. The sky is filled with blowing snow that bites your face and hands. I pull my hood tight around my face and pull my hands inside the sleeves of my sweat shirt. As soon as I get to the road that runs through the park, the whole scene changes. There is darkness, but the darkness isn’t really dark. The snow reflects enough light to make the night glow hazy grey. I am no longer in the park. I am walking into a painting.

    It is a painting of a house at the end of a dirt road on a winter night. A faint glow of diffused light softens the features of the house. I know this house well; it is the home of my grandparents. The lack of light inside confirms to me that they are both fast asleep. I don’t understand why I am walking towards their house. I feel a disconnection with my surroundings. I walk further into the painting. The hood of my sweatshirt forms a small window; I look through this window into my painted world. As I walk, I leave the sounds of the city behind me. I do not turn around. If I am leaving footprints on the canvas, I don’t want to know it. I pass a road on my right and continue east, I am getting closer to my grandparents house as I walk. When I get to their front yard, I turn north and then east; continuing on past their house. I don’t even question why. I don’t know why I am here and if the path turns before I get to my grandparents house, then I am sure must have another destination. I walk on. As soon as I turn away from the house it no longer exists. I start to look back, to confirm this, but for some reason I continue forward into the next painting.

    A long sloping hill with pine trees on my left is pulling me towards the bend at the bottom of the hill. It appears that I am heading for the woods. I walk farther into this painting. There is a fuzzy glow to the left, I can’t see the source of the light, but it is safe. I am not afraid in this painting either. As I descend into the watercolor dream, the shapes rise out of the grey off to my right. The angles tell me they are man made and as I get closer, they morph into playground equipment. A swing set, a teeter totter, and a merry-go-round. I can barely make out a shelter where picnic tables sit in rows. For a second, ghosts of laughing children fill the night as the playground comes to life. Proud ladies pass dishes of flavored filled labors of love. I walk quietly so as not to disturb them. I don’t think I could have disturbed them anyway. They are from a different time. I can’t see the color of their clothing or make out what they are saying but I know they are not from this time. Slowly, I pass them and walk around the bend. This time I do look back and the playground is silent. The dishes have all been put away and the smells of family dining no longer fill the air. I am alone as I walk out of that painting and into another.

    The road takes me to a fork. I know my path is to the right. I am being led through another painted world. The snow masks the road and there is no longer anything man made in my presence. I am miles from anyplace I have been before. The woods have enveloped me. I didn’t really walk into it. It was just there. I am alone on a forest path. Just beyond the path on my right the world drops away. I stop and peer into the valley. The snow and the wind blow into my face and I know that if I am silent that nothing in that direction will know that I am here. I am down wind; I stand quiet, gazing into the valley. I see no living creature, only desolation. The haze of the snow blurs the scene and large objects begin to form out of the brush piles. The buffalo are barely moving. I am a Native American from the Black Foot tribe. I am crouching on a ridge. I am seeing through the eyes of my ancestor. The spear isn’t heavy, but I can feel it now in my right hand as I crouch, creeping forward to count the number of my prey. The blurry images fade as the snow is blown into my face and my squinting eyes lose the past. There are only brush piles and I stand up and turn away. I have moved forward in time.

    I walk on into another painted world. I can see a shadowy secluded bench with a roof over it. A lady in a bonnet sits with her shawl around her. She is silent and I cannot see her face. She pulls the shawl tight to her as a guest of snow-filled-wind bites into her exposed hands. I turn toward her to offer her my coat and she is gone. The crisp silence is shattered as a distant train whistle from another painting fills my ears with the music of hobo dreams. The roar of the train is carried farther in the cold and it feels like it is just over the hill. I walk on. The elevation is rising as a light peeks through the trees. Reaching into the night, silhouettes of dead leafless trees rise from the ground like bark covered spider legs. As I walk toward the light, the eerie tune from Close Encounters fills my head. I know there is a space-craft in the clearing ahead. I am crawling towards the light. The brightness is unbelievable. Fear, wonder, and intense anticipation draw me closer to the clearing. My heart rate increases as adrenaline is released into my body causing euphoria and tunnel vision. I am at the site of an alien landing. I look from behind a tree. There are two poles in the center of an empty parking lot; bright light screams blinding radiance into the night. I am bathed in light as I walk into the empty parking lot. With all of this light, the woods that I just walked through look dark and menacing. I walk beyond the snow covered pavement. I step over a log onto a wooded path. The light fades behind me. The ice and snow crunch beneath my shoes. I am in a painting of an ever changing path. With every step my painting shifts.

    There are no footprints in the snow. I am alone in my own private art museum. The path continues on but I turn north into the woods. I need no path to guide, I am being led somewhere and it appears that I am going where few have been before. Soon, I come to the edge of a clearing. Movement catches my eye and I crouch. Just West of where I am hidden, there is an old pickup truck and a picnic shelter. There is a woman sitting on the top of one of the picnic tables and a man is standing with the woman’s blue jean clad legs wrapped around him. They are locked in a passionate embrace as they kiss. I turn my head to watch from my hidden location and they fade into clouds of blowing snow. I am alone.

    To the east there is a light beyond the woods at the end of the clearing. I turn to walk toward it. An opening in the fence on the south east corner of the clearing pulls me towards it. I walk South down the path. It looks like I am not supposed to know what the source of the light in the woods is. There is a fork in the path. Without thinking, I take the path to the right. Walking East down a winding hilly lane that leads me back to the light filled parking lot, I stop and look for movement. I wait several seconds and see nothing. In the direction, a barking dog turns into a lone wolf, howling. I stand and wonder if the wolves are tracking me. It’s only a painting I am safe, I walk on. I walk out into the light of the parking lot and I am drawn to the little patches where the snow is dented. My mind searches for a logical explanation for the indentations. I come to the conclusion that they were caused by left over salt that ate away at the new snow until finally its power to consume and destroy was overpowered by Mother Nature.

    As I am looking at the indentations they shift into big footprints. I transform into Bigfoot. I wonder for a split second if anyone saw me do this as I walk toward the woods with big lumbering strides, my long arms swinging. Thoughts fade away as I assume the mentality of an uneducated creature that has never had the misfortune of seeing a car or hearing a telephone ring. I lumber on through the woods without a thought in my head. The creaking of tree against tree brings me back to reality. Snowy wind blows through my sweat pants and for a brief second I miss my fur.

    I step out of the woods onto a road heading north east. I am myself again and the cold is biting into me. I pull my sweat shirt up over my mouth and breathe into it. After a few minutes the ache in my lungs subsides. I walk on. The road turns and off in the distance I hear another train, but it’s not a train at all.

    It’s the distant rumbling of a tank, many tanks. In the distance, I see the faded lights of the city. The snow on the ground and in the air has turned to ash. I walk silently. After the initial bombing; the people in the big cities were gone. Those of us that survived had lived the way we are living now long before the war. I rarely see another human and they never see me. I walk up to the isolation fence. Many years ago softball was played within these fences. After the invasion, POWs were held here before they were shipped out. This place is hardly ever used anymore. There haven’t been POWs in this facility in years. I walk west to the other prison facility. This place used to be a Farming store before the war. Now there are a couple of cars in the fence and on certain nights the yard is lit up. The lights are on tonight so I won’t go any closer than this.

    I duck into a row of pine trees and down the pine hallway. I come out on the west side and there is snow again. I see my trailer. Walking towards it I am briefly overcome by the feeling that I am a great hunter. I am returning from the hunt with life giving meat for my family.

    This quickly fades as I walk out of the painting into the street. I am myself again. I am cold and wet. Even though I have lived many lives, it has only been an hour since I entered the paintings.