The storm dumped eight inches of snow and brought low temperatures of three to seven degrees. In the lower pasture, a float on the stock tank quit working and drained the main line. This resulted in four days without water.
            But I’m not complaining. Electrical power remained steady. This kept the wood pellet stove—my main source of heat—operating. With the help of portable electrical heaters, I remained reasonably warm as wind pushed against the metal siding of my abode and carved smooth curves into snowbanks alongside the porch.
            Again, I’m not complaining. In fact, I enjoy caring for livestock when temperatures drop and stalls and stables require additional bedding. When chores are finished, I rest in the glow of flickering flames and the cuddled warmth of the dog curled next to me on the couch. The soft click of rosary beads makes this snowy night on the Texas plains as cozy as a worn comforter.
            Come morning, I grab my boots, coat, scarf, stocking cap—along with an axe from the tack room—and head for the stock tank in the feedlot. I lift the axe above my head, then smash it into the block of smooth, grey ice. Sparkling splinters sail past my face. Three more strokes and the shell cracks open.
            Dark water flops like a fish, flipping flashes of morning light up through the ragged aperture. More swings. More whacks. Soon, the outer shell floats in pieces, like toy icebergs, across the tank. Wind tugs the now moist scarf wrapped about my face, The lens of my glasses fog and the view of my neighbor’s field turns grey. Red clouds, thin as fingers, claw the frigid sky.
            The cold bites. The wind growls. The snow swirls.
            I kneel and give my dog a friendly pat. The axe leans against the metal tank. My head rests against its rim.
            I take a breath of frigid air and savor the vigor of the Creator.