Blow Blow

The temperature started to plummet here in late afternoon yesterday, and by nightfall it was bitterly cold. The village was in the icy grip of a wind which didn't merely moan and groan — that wind howled and shrieked and screamed and cursed, beating on our doors, rattling the windows and walls of the little blue house and attempting to wrench the eaves off altogether. The cacophanous night wind demanded entrance everywhere at once, and we tuned out its shrill request, drawing the draperies closed against the darkness, heaping birch logs in the fireplace and staying close to the lighted hearth with our books and mugs of tea.

When I went outside into the garden briefly to look at the hazy waning moon very late in the evening, both sets of windbells were in motion and dancing to and fro so vigorously that at times they were almost horizontal in their ceaseless oscillation. The little blue house sighed and creaked all night long, and there were times when its posts and beams were more vocal than the windbells in the garden.

This morning, there is brilliant sunlight, but it is crackling cold, and the themometer is registering a balmy minus forty with the wind chill factored into the equation. One would think that surely this is unusual weather for northern March, but (alas) that is not so — days like this one are rather common here at this time of year. Every March lion in existence is on the prowl this morning and roaring loudly enough to awaken those who have travelled beyond the fields we know.

Spending the day indoors and bearing witness to the sunlight and the wind from this side of the window glass seems like a very good idea. Tea anyone???