Bleak and Blue

Frozen feet stomp through the drifting waves of winter's bounty. Frigid fingers vainly try to grasp the slippery handle of a familiar old shovel or scuffed and battered snow scoop. Gloves or mittens inside choppers (leather mittens) make deft hands clumsy and uncertain. Parkas or heavy coats restrict movement of arms and shoulders, making simple work more difficult. Hoods and hats keep the snow and wind from freezing your face and ears, but muffle sounds and create a kind of tunnel vision. It is like dancing in a sleeping bag.

And how does only six inches of fluffy white stuff become so heavy? There are days that I swear the snow propagates after falling on the ground. Wind drifts of white appear over night, filling in all the paths I cleared yesterday, or even a few hours ago. The snow plow opens our street by pushing the snow from the road into yards and driveways, creating new drifts of hard-packed and heavy detritus which must be moved or we will be sealed into our wintry redoubt. Thus begins the daily dance of the bleak and blue warriors, greeting the snowy morn with shovel in hand, battling the icy white breath of winter's curse, and dreaming of warm socks and hot coffee.

Mick

Bleak and Blue

Dark wintry silence pierced by screams of rage:
The roar of mountain lions stomped by cows,
Or snarling sounds produced by those my age,
Who find their driveways filled-in by snow plows!
There in the bleakest hour of early morn,
Though muffled by the falling flakes of white,
The sounds of aging tendons being torn,
Rip through the ragged remnants of the night.
Dark shadows armed with shovels flail about,
Though dimly viewed though curtains pale and cold,
Move countless tons of frozen rainfall out
Of paths and driveways, as we watch unfold
The deep midwinter icy action show,
All bleak and blue and buried in the snow.

Mick McKellar
December 2009