I swept a thick coat of light snow off the front porch, then the back porch, both sets of stairs. I shoveled a crooked line of snow, fifteen inches deep in places where it had drifted, from the stairs to the front sidewalk, and then scraped the ice off the front sidewalk beneath the snow my landlord had already plowed.
I dislike the work of shoveling, sure, the sweating while bundled up, the seven-degrees cold wind hitting me in the face, the pain in my lower back from not properly bending my knees while I work, but what I dislike most, honestly, is being the snow's undoing. It is so white, so perfect, drifted all around us.
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