A brilliant scrap of waning moon rose in the wee hours of this morning and could
be seen through the bare trees in our garden. Luna was a fey and
compelling presence through the bedroom draperies, and sleeping
was well nigh impossible.
Temperatures were well below zero overnight. As I watched the moon from my pillow, I could hear the north wind dancing across the roof and doing a hornpipe through the eaves of the little blue house in the village, listen to the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. There is no doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.
On a cold morning in February of a plague year, one is grateful for small, homely things, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, the sputtering of the DiLonghi espresso machine in a corner of the kitchen, the square of blue sky seen through a window when clouds roll back away for a while, the warmth of a coffee mug cradled in one’s gnarly paws as she looks out across the garden.
Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows.
On our morning walk, Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a puddle. It was below freezing, but there was melting going on, and the evolving puddle was a work of art in progress. Before our eyes were islands and peninsulas, steep-sided fjords and lofty promontories, minute deltas and estuaries, silvery straits and wide, rolling channels. We had ourselves a tiny sunlit sea.
Temperatures were well below zero overnight. As I watched the moon from my pillow, I could hear the north wind dancing across the roof and doing a hornpipe through the eaves of the little blue house in the village, listen to the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. There is no doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.
On a cold morning in February of a plague year, one is grateful for small, homely things, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, the sputtering of the DiLonghi espresso machine in a corner of the kitchen, the square of blue sky seen through a window when clouds roll back away for a while, the warmth of a coffee mug cradled in one’s gnarly paws as she looks out across the garden.
Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows.
On our morning walk, Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a puddle. It was below freezing, but there was melting going on, and the evolving puddle was a work of art in progress. Before our eyes were islands and peninsulas, steep-sided fjords and lofty promontories, minute deltas and estuaries, silvery straits and wide, rolling channels. We had ourselves a tiny sunlit sea.
1 comment:
Great to see something melting...our lake has only frozen a few times that I've lived here, but it's been in Feb. So far, if it happened while I was staying inside, I haven't seen it yet this year. I am trying to walk when it's cold...but haven't really made it for the times when it's in the teens or 20s. (F)
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