Yesterday, I didn’t want to get out of bed. On my phone, the temperature registered a bracing 7F (-14C) when my feet finally touched the floor. My lack of enthusiasm stemmed from the prior evening’s image of the streetlight illuminating falling snow outside my window. That meant I needed to shovel the driveway. Punxsutawney Phil’s forecast for six more weeks of winter seemed accurate. After exhausting my list of excuses, my phone displayed a balmy 12F (-11C). There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I set to work.

Shoveling snow demands physical exertion and almost no brain power, so I allowed my mind to wander. I had almost finished my task when a bird call caught my attention. I didn’t believe my ears and dismissed it in favor of completing my job and getting inside where it was warmer. The bird called again. “It can’t…