Clearing Ice

Mammoth cold this morning. There’s been an ice-storm. Creaking and walking boots talking shovel in heavy hand. Robins pounce on frozen worms. The wide spade snatches at the frozen turf, its red plastic mouth scooping up small glacial heaps. Soon I tire, soon I sag, flinching beneath the wind's frigid lash. I throw the shovel down, defeated - going to toss bird seed, feed those robins, maybe save the life of a few stiff worms, make hot cocoa.