We are buried here. Up to our armpits. A bitter wind whips the stuff into dunes across the yard and fields and bites my skin as I push my way out the door. The minute I manage to clear 5 steps in front of me, I am back indoors for my camera. I want to remember the way the golden light plays across the textured fields and casts shadows in the wind-blown, white waves. My fingers ache from exposure as the pink snow-dust hurries from the amber, blushing light. I’m pushing daylight now and after a quick warm up of the fingers, put my shoulder to the business at hand.
As I struggle to right the eight-foot ladder and plant it in the four-foot drift under the eave, I am thankful the backyard view greeted me first. It occupies my thoughts as I stand on a roof in knee-deep snow. I’m motivated to work up this sweat in subzero wind by previous experience with ice dams and the indoor waterfalls they create when allowed to grow. Icicles are destroyed at my hand and the roof cleared in short order. I gingerly step down the ladder, grab my roof rake and trudge back around the corner of the house. I am arrested. Dead in my tracks. The horizon holds a glorious sunset. And I yell to the wind, “Oh, God! You just keep on giving!”
©Erika Rice 2014