Over and over again, the village freezes and thaws. Every puddle in the park seems to be talking to the sky, sometimes clear and blue, mostly cloudy and grey. Encountering sunlight is engaging this late in the year, particularly in a pool of melt water.
Beau and I are outdoors for long walks every morning, and we potter along at a snail's pace, talking with the trees in the park (especially the beech mother and her daughters), listening to crows conversing over our heads, counting cones on the old pines in the woods.
This morning we returned home from our ramble with pockets full of fragrant seed bearers in all shapes and sizes, happier with our gathered abundance than we would have been with bags of glittering coin and rustling paper money. My companion has no pockets of his own of course, and he makes use of mine.
Long walks lighten winter hearts and make a hopeful (if bone chilling) start to December days. We walk for miles with hoods up against the north wind and listen to it cavorting in villages eaves and gutters. We pause at every puddle to watch how tenderly it holds the sky and clouds and (if we are lucky) a little sunlight.
The beloved who has gone on ahead is never far from our thoughts. Wherever he journeys, we send him our love. May his trail be easy and filled with light.
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