Ice

A man is scraping,
chipping at the ocean
of ice spread and sitting
on his driveway.

Sprays of white,
freed
escape, fly
in the direction he moves
his thick, metal shovel.

Not the kind for snow.
Just right for ice.

For freeing,
unleashing, and resetting
the ice into the blue
depth of the sky.
Before it meets the
ground nearby.
It looks so light.
It could be shards
of fleeing, flung water.