March fire...

 Monday is my day off. Normally I use this day to run errands, go to appointments, and write for various publications. Chris is up and out early to work. He encourages Bravo to hop in bed for a cuddle, and I doze or read luxuriously while I listen to morning sounds; the splash of running water, the thud of Chris' boots as he puts them on, the jingle of his car keys against the change in his pocket as he heads downstairs. I smell coffee brewing and hear the metallic squeak of the woodstove door and the thunk of logs and know he is starting a fire. 

This morning, snuggled warm under handmade quilts and watching bright dawn fill the windows, I could hear birdsong and smell a springtime smell wafting in through the ever-so-slightly opened window. I thought a fire seemed a little silly on what promised to be a lovely day. 

Once up, I showered, made the bed, put on comfy clothes that made me smile, started a load of laundry, and came downstairs to let the dogs out and do chores. Instead of my heavy winter Carhart jacket, I zipped into a light fleece. Chris had already tossed some hay to the hoofstock, bribing them to be quiet for a while and let me have a peaceful morning. We had heavy rain yesterday and most of the night. There is the faintest hint of green on the lawn and in the pasture. The goats and donkeys are all heads down, their nimble lips straining to pinch the tiny shoots. In frustration, they paw at the ground, willing the good grass to grow enough so they can graze.  

I let the chickens and ducks out of their coops. They stream around my ankles, heading for the food and water bowls, intent on a day of scratching in the dirt (chickens) and searching for puddles (ducks.) A chill wind makes me zip my jacket higher and move a little more quickly. As I carry water and scatter corn for the chickens to find, a lone gull, 12 miles from the nearest beach, laughs overhead. The ducks tilt their heads to one side to watch the stranger, then resume their waddling explorations. 

Muddy boots left on the deck, the door opens to the delicious warmth of flames snapping in the stove. That fire does not seem so silly now. I add a few logs and crank the damper down, glad of its comfort. 

There are brownies to be baked and delivered. Some neighbors are moving away, and I want them to have something sweet to remember their time in Maine by during their long ride south. I'll tidy the house, sweep spring mud up off the floor, and spend a grateful day writing by the stove.