I like shoveling.  I do.  I like the rhythmic motions, the steady progress, the beauty of the white-and-blue snow.  I like the sounds of the shovel scraping the pavers, and the plop of the snow when a load of it lands elsewhere.  I like the frosty particles that float back to coat me when I throw a shovelful high and far.

I like the feeling of working harmoniously together as a family, and letting my mind wander to old memories of snow forts from my childhood.  I like walking down the cleared, tidy path when it’s done, and the loose feeling of unaccustomed work in my muscles.

I like going back inside to keep writing.