This is not the big spring thaw, just a little one. The drifts of paper change shape but do not disappear. They slide around a little, they shrink a bit. The landscape is not radically altered, but it changes. I do some shovelling and some shuffling, minor digging out. I eye the big glaciers but leave them be.
Everything will freeze up again, go to slush again, be underfoot and yet also overhanging, and I will swear at it. That is to come. Right now there is a moraine of grit on the floor. I get the broom.
Sweeping the floor slick again, I feel like a curling player. I have never been on curling ice, never touched a stone, but I remember from some distant point in childhood that the ones with the brooms are sweepers and the captain is the skip.
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