These are the same paths that my grandfather walked.

And his father, and father’s father, and so on,

they too, walked these same paths.

And those paths have been worn into the land by the river that they walked beside.

They have changed, along with the flow of the river.
But it is still a river, nonetheless.
And the banks, still banks.

I can see their footsteps.

I can know and understand their choice of the landings of their feet.

And I walk on those same banks,

My stride, my pace, and the size of my prints change.

They are the same as my grandfathers, and his father, and his father’s father, and so on.

I can look back and try to avoid the pitfalls and sinkholes that they found,

But the same sinkholes, different only in their placement, still grab my feet