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Chop, chop, chop at the ice.

Clear away the loose bits, the snow, the crackly ice, the scrum of ice chunks already loosened from the black driveway - expose the solid water that has not yet let go.

I'm different temperatures in all the various pieces of me now: my back and legs are chilled, though not deeply - they will warm quickly when I go back inside; my fingers and toes are losing heat constantly, and will tingle and sting and stiffen when the warmth my body sends out to them is no longer being overwhelmed; my cheeks are cool, but my head is overwarm. The some of all these parts is cold, though, which is all that holds back the sweat; when I walk in the door, I will have to shed coat and shoes and outer clothing quickly, or I will overheat, my cold-pinked cheeks holding that shade but for a different reason.

It isn't time for that yet, though. I stalk around the lines of solid water that cling to the ground, trying to envision which angle of impact will break off the most - or any at all. Different strikes at different places - shattering platters of frozen water across the ground. Chips fly occasionally at my eyes - should I have my glasses over them instead of perched on top of my head, vainly trying to hold back my hair and falling each time I lean over?

The cold is taking over; time to stop. The debris tossed off to the side, the implements put away, in the house, my hip complains. Muscles never like to return from a vacation of any length.

The drive is still only halfway done. This still has its satisfactions, but I'd so much rather it were fresh snow, or even old undisturbed snow, than these rows of tiretrack ice.
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