Our calendars begin in the wrong spot. They should start and end with the first snow, a great eraser, unsharpening the earth and blurring the boundary between spruce grove and sky. Every footprint made visible in a grand reordering of urgent peace amid the crystal quiet. On snowy days, I’d ride shotgun in my dad’s snowplow truck counting backup beeps before the drop of the blade, some deft angling, and a crunching rush of progress crossing a small craft runway, a plumbing store parking lot, or a long, wooded driveway making space for all the civilization. Next morning—our work is deleted and we do what all humans do: pull on boots, grab the keys, and thrust our dull blades forward.