Last open water

With Winter Storm Octavia out of the way and Pandora on the horizon, I discovered something unpleasant: I am not quite immortal. Perhaps it was due to the incessant snow shoveling. Perhaps I skied too much. Maybe it was that brief workout with weights—nothing unusual but I did feel some odd tightness—or, who knows, it could have been the wood-splitting... or perhaps nothing at all. Anyway, when I got up this morning, my left shoulder was so sore that I had trouble lifting my arm. Well, I've had this before but in the other shoulder, so I downed a naproxen, did a little light stretching, cursed profusely, and made certain that I would no longer put off applying for Medicare. Then, a bit later, I strapped on snowshoes and headed into the woods, a bit sad that I would have to break the string of skiing days. No real problem: I love to snowshoe, too. The woods were beautiful and, surprisingly, almost devoid of tracks, besides the ones I was making. Even the Noah-sized stream—the seasonal creek behind my house—had disappeared under the white blanket... except in a few persistent spots of open water that may, in short order, disappear when the deep cold returns.