On Snow Shovelling
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
with no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)
A mutt rebounds past my window
as I contemplate the morning weather
while sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour,
who’s clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and with a winter implement
grasped in her mitten-covered hands,
bravely confronting the heart-attack weather
while tossing snow over her shoulders
to clear the driveway from garage to curb
for the mechanical beast to enter
the unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt
(no doubt an excuse to catch her breath).
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master,
who brushes the snow from his fur
and, I venture to guess, says, “Atta-boy!”
as if the dog had overcome
some great endeavour.
But they both seem to derive pleasure
from the brief encounter.
The master resumes her shovelling
and the mutt his romping,
and I, continue thinking
while sipping my hot cup of coffee that I, too,
will have to face the inclement weather,
clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and commit to the task of snow shovelling.
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