Puddles and Windy Doings

Temperatures were well below zero overnight. As I looked through the bedroom window from my pillow in the wee hours, I could see the old trees in the back yard yard blowing about, hear the north wind dancing across the roof and through the eaves.

Ancient Greeks called the north wind Boreas, and to the Inuit of the Yu'pik tribe, the spirit is Negafook, or more poetically, "the spirit who likes cold and stormy weather." Whatever one calls him, the old guy was in ebullient mode last night and rampaging through the sleeping garden with gusto. The weather vane on my neighbor's roof groaned. The wooden fence along the perimeter creaked, and there was the constant snap, crackle, pop of frozen twigs being liberated from their moorings, the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang around for some time to come.

On an icy morning in late February, one is grateful for small things, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, the sputtering of the Di'Longhi espresso machine in a corner of the kitchen, the square of blue sky seen through a window, 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.

It is too cold to walk Beau for any distance today, but while we were out a while ago, we paused in a brief splotch of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a frozen puddle. As cold as the morning was, there was a little melting going on, and the evolving pool was a work of art in progress.