Reflections on the Seventh Week of Winter

 

Because my rheumatologist urged me to do aerobics three times a week and because Spence raved about his deep-snow adventure in the woods, I pulled Marge's red, green, maroon, and tan striped leg warmers over my slacks, grabbed my camera, and bundled in winter gear for a Saturday stroll. Spence came too–expecting, no doubt, that he'd have to rescue me. On the slog to Deer Creek, I kept borrowing his Sharpie to mark compacted snow measurements on a maple twig. Depths averaged eighteen and a half inches. Our boots sank sixteen inches through layers of dry powder and crunchy iced-snow. Pulling feet back out challenged balance, but wide arms saved me from landing on my butt. The only prints, besides Spence's, were of squirrels scampering across the top of snow or digging to caches. Though dozens of birds gathered at the deck feeder, none flew in the woods. Deer Creek gurgled under ice and rushed between snow walls. I'd forged a fresh trail going down but was content to step in Spence's prints climbing up. My heart pounded a jitterbug, I breathed as if I'd run a mile, and sweat coated my back. Aerobics indeed.