The Zen Of Snow Shoveling

Shoveling snow is being alone. Alone with your senses, alone to to be alert
and focused from within.
Yes, how the shovel grinds, the taste of the air, the song and allure of the spirited creatures of the cold.
A projection of perceptions not relative to the sloppy sounds of slush
churning in the wheel-wells of the passing cars.
Oh no, not at all.
So surreal, yet there when we reach for them, are the colors of the day,
rippling pastures of golden grain morphing into drifts of pure white snow
glistening like tiny crystals, then shrouded under a cloudless moonlit night.

You have me shoveling now, and the air is delightfully crisp.