by Barlow Adams Sies Kranen My wife’s tracks in the mud mingled with those of the ducks until I couldn’t tell where anything began or ended. From the house to the creek at the edge of our yard and back, a parade of webbed feet encircling the memory of my wife’s careful, deliberate steps, her stride short, the way people walked when they were carrying something precious. Her attachment didn’t bother me at first. I thought it could even be positive after we had to give up the b