10:27 this evening. 32F. Neither the pug nor I are wearing jackets as we stand on the front steps watching the fluffy snowflakes float through the streetlight. The porchlight reflects diamond crystals scattered on the snow at our feet, filling the tracks we have just made. After subzero temperatures, 32 degrees feels damned comfortable in shirtsleeves. We both breath in deep. The air is wonderfully moist and cleansing as it passes my nose and lungs - refreshing after the brittle arid air of deep winter. I notice the buds on the magnolia stellata by the door are swelling. The pug doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't care much for flowers. His world tends to be ground level odors. Deaf and blind, he boofs halfheartedly at imagined threats. Good boy! There is still a couple of feet of snow, maybe more, piled by the plow, shovel and snowblower on our small front yard, but real spring is in the air. The longest, deepest winter since we moved to Oakwood over twenty years ago is over. There will still be a token snow or two. Maybe even deep enough to crank up the Husqvarna, but it will melt rather than lingering for months. Enough. One more year. The pug and I go in to bed down for the night. Winners again.
|Cottage next door early this morning. To blow or not to blow, that is the question.|