And so it begins. . .

And so it begins. . . There was snow on the deck when we pulled the draperies open in early morning. A bitter north wind roared through the trees and cavorted across the roof of the little blue house in the village, dislodging frozen leaves and twigs. Frost crystals were piled up like stalagmites on the few remaining daisies in the garden.

In such weather, we need heavier gear for our morning walks, I in my tattered navy parka with its deep hood, and Beau in an eye grabbing shade of scarlet fleece.

All this is for a few days, then there will be warmer weather for the rest of the week, starting tomorrow. We will be back in lighter clobber for a while, just long enough to get used to it. After that, a return to parkas, mukluks, toques and mittens.

November is a time of whispering and rustling and crackling change, of whiskery trees rattling their bones in the wind, of frost on the roof and leaves crunching underfoot. There are balmier days now and then, but winter is on its way.

There has been nothing but cloud here for days. Oh for a little sunlight.