Shoveling snow before dawn is a meditative exercise. There are no sounds as the snow muffles random noises. A fresh 2-inch blanket covers the surroundings, which were losing their wintry white coating, transitioning to gray.
My large shovel rolls the powder downhill toward the sides of the driveway, scraping against the blacktop, the lone sound. It is still quite cold as the desiccated leaves of the rhododendron show. It is a good gauge of sub-freezing temperatures. But I feel little chill given the rhythm of my work, pushing on.
Finishing the drive, I clear an adjacent walkway hearing the first chirping of birds as the sun peeks over a nearby hill. Approaching the front door, Buddha is solemn, waiting for more light.
