Snow Angel
Plastic wrap gaiters secured with twine protect the transition from cotton sweatpants to leather work boots.
A well-tuned rumble shattering the muffled morning as he heads up the hill to my drive.
Snowy morning smell replaced by fumes of gas and oil immediately unearthing memories of my dad.
This vintage machine, made when machines were mostly metal, is piloted by ages of experience and a depth of mechanical knowledge I envy. It displaces snow practically, usefully, purposefully, precisely out of the way so I can move another machine about which I know so little.
“I’ll help you with the heavy snow at the end of the drive” he says while idling. “Thank you so much” I say. “Just being neighborly” he says, the end of the sentiment engulfed by the increasing throttle as he turns, heading back down the hill to home.
The cushioned silence greets me as I open the door. It’s early enough that snowblower rattles and shovel scrapes are not yet replacing Carolina Wren song.
Plodding through inches of snow, I am not yet ready to begin the tasks required to accommodate a normal day’s activities.
Heading to a flat open spot covered deep in snow, I fall backwards without worry, certain this mattress of frozen hexagons will catch me softly, conforming to my curves as much as any memory foam.
Smiling into the blue sky I move my long arms and legs in arcs, uselessly, impractically, for no reason but sensation, for no purpose but pleasure.
