Sequestered, Week 247 (CCXLVII)

It has been cold here in recent days, and icicles in the village grow longer and longer, impressive and a little scary. They chime like tubular bells when the north wind blows through them, and there is quite a performance going on. Does anyone remember that fabulous recording by Mike Oldfield?

Occasionally ice stalactites shatter and plummet into the snowdrifts below, depositing what appear to be shards of glass. A noisy business, their journey to earth drowns out everything else around here: vehicles in the street, the wind blowing along the fence, hungry birds clamoring for food, squirrels chattering in the hedge.

Our roof is well insulated and does not produce many icicles, but it sports a few. The roistering wind dislodges them occasionally, and down they go, clanging and clattering. A little later this morning, I will wrap up warmly and go out to collect the shards before they impale themselves in Beau's paws. The fallen bits are wickedly sharp, and they are a hazard for canine toes. I will also use a broom to prune the icicles dangling over the back door, the deck and our path down to the sleeping garden. Me lurching about and brandishing a broom skyward - now there is a picture. 

This is a fine day for reading, thinking, drinking tea and just looking out the window. Why is that noble exercise called woolgathering? The only woolly stuff festooning this elderly person is a tattered (and much loved) old red shawl, and it has already been well and truly gathered. Everything else is cotton, layer upon layer of it.