The wind howls, the snow blows, and it's icy cold by the door and beyond the still darkened windows. This morning's aches and touch of fever are to be expected from time to time when one insists on pottering around in the woods on winter days with a load of wild bird food and a camera around her neck.
There is a cauldron of Tuscan bean soup coming together nicely on the stove, a blue bowl of clove studded (and probably very fragrant) oranges on the table nearby, a steaming mug of tea in hand and Mozart (The Magic Flute) on the sound system, soon to be followed by Sheela-na-gig's madcap Baba Yaga's Ball. I can't smell the soup, the oranges or the cloves, but my imagination fills in the gaps, and the colors are lovely. Soon, there will be sunlight coming through the kitchen window.
As I tottered around the house yesterday afternoon, shivering and draped in every warm shawl I own, a friend appeared on the threshold with a big bag of books to engage these shivery hours indoors. I am blessed indeed.