shovelling ovenbird Some chores are beautiful, especially when you never get to do them anymore, and this might be the most nostalgic of them all. There’s not much snow. A dusting really, but enough that the sidewalks need clearing, so I head out eagerly with a bright yellow shovel and stand, for a moment, in this snow globe world with its frozen memories falling all around me. The snow will show you everything—the traces of a rabbit that passed through the back garden, the squirrel’s tail that brushed the fence tops clean, the feral cat with silent paws stalking birds in the winterberry. If we were to lie on the ground and let the sky sift clouds onto our bodies we could see the tracks the years have made, dainty evidence of friends and foe winding over the hills of our hearts, the pattern the wind makes. I want to write the field guide to everything you’ve ever been. I want to place my hand in the hollow left by your heels. I want to know the name of every bird that has flown from your cupped palms. When I leave this place I want to look behind me and see the subtle imprint of your arms becoming wings. 260222 what's it to you? who go blather from