I am on my way to work, caffeine thoughts swirling as if stirred by a shiny, busy spoon. I must have a zillion things to do today or so it seems like anyway.

The road opens up and my journey takes me over the causeway. Little tornadoes of snow are rising from the ice below on this bitter December morning. They sweep their way down the lake leaving what remains reflective and spotless.

I crane my neck to see them, the first ice fishermen of the season! There they are marching over the new ice in their dark winter suits, pulling their sleds, shouldering their packs, hoisting the auger over their heads.

They are a long way off but I can imagine what is going on out there. The ice fishermen are drilling holes around themselves. Baiting and setting their tip ups in anticipation, they grunt and nod toward one another. Talk is useless; the wind and snow swallows their hopeful, encouraging words.

In the past I have ventured onto the ice to see first-hand what these ice fishermen do. They have shown me their catch and the filets of fish meat, carved from the carcasses of bass, walleye, and pike. They are putting food on the table; the entrails and boney remains, they leave for the birds of prey.

Turning my attention to what is ahead of me, the road makes a bend and then climbs a steep hill. I try to focus in on my circumstances. The truth is I do not know what I am going to do today; some of my days are filled with nothing but loathing. I cannot recall anything of importance from just minutes ago; it's as if this encounter has wiped my consciousness clear like the windshield.

I am moving on now, headed to work, and yet angling the rear view mirror of my SUV with my right hand, I fixate on the ice fishermen even as I speed away from them. I follow their shrinking images in reverse, trying to keep my bearings straight in my head, until the scene fades and a white curtain closes on my view, until the mirror reflects only me.

The door that greets me with a belly ache. Lights, about to illuminate, for the first time in days. My favorite chair, unable to contain itself at the sight of me. That desk, demanding to stretch its legs. Mirror on the wall that I will have to face sooner or later. My clothes which are better off without me.

Now it is time for me to lay down upon the undone bed that I have made for myself.