Shoveling Solo

On nights alone like this,
February is most beautiful.

The moon reflects the bluish snow
as I toss shadows of weightless worry
over the banks with my plastic shovel
balanced perfectly in my over-mittened hands.

It is 11 degrees and the slightest wind
blows frozen misty feathers
back into my face.
I am delighted at how fresh it feels
to have this ocean of white
rise like a tide in Maine.

But we are in Vermont tonight,
near the fullest moon in February,
and I nearly howl I am so happy to be shoveling
with no artificial illumination
to block my view of the sky.