“Footmarks diverging,” Miroslav Holub, “And what’s new”
and, of course, after Robert Frost

Whoever it was had come to the fork
and without any seeming indecision

headed in both directions at once,
the right footprints, quickly beginning to fill,

turning to hurry along the stream,
the impressions of a left boot, getting faint,

following the sign to the fire tower,
each foot hopping along, we guessed,

whoever it was of two minds
having split up as we split up,

each of us tracking half of a person,
trying to catch up, great flakes of snow

continuing to fall, those footprints
leading to where they disappeared,

the wind picking up, our texts disagreeing
about when and where to meet.