After what I would call a mild winter, the past week has delivered a lot of snow. Whoever built our house in 1910 didn't scrimp on windows, and I have lovely views of the falling flakes on all sides. I send them a silent thank you.
I've fed the birds since the week we bought the place. Guests often comment on how many there are here, flitting and flying, filling the air with sound. The cost of the seed is an investment in wonder.
Bravo thinks the snow is a treat. I throw a toy for him, and it vanishes in a puff of white. His clever nose finds it every time, and he tosses his head, toy clenched, and prances with apparent pride.
All but one customer canceled today, wanting to avoid sloppy roads. The fire snaps in the wood stove, I have a warm supper planned for this evening, and the plan for the rest of the day is to catch up on writing assignments. There will be a walk in the meadow with the dogs later; otherwise, I plan to relish some quiet time. Snow days are little gems of unexpected respite.
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