Espresso, Puddles and Light

Temperatures were well below zero overnight, and the village was a noisy place. From my pillow, I could hear the north wind roistering across the roof shingles and through the eaves. It wailed down the chimney, rattled doors and windows, sang through the telephone wires, howled its pleasure in the fine performance it was putting on. In the garden, it whistled through the old board fence, and there was the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.

On an arctic morning in late winter, one is grateful for small things. A square of blue sky can be seen seen through the window when the clouds roll back away for a while, and the deep snow in the garden sparkles wherever sunlight touches it. In the kitchen, there is the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and toasting sourdough, the cheerful sputtering of the De'Longhi coffee machine in the corner, the warmth of the coffee mug cradled in my gnarly paws. Beau leans sleepily against me with his eyes closed, happy ears and a contented expression. 

Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little attention and gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows. Trudging through icy cold and snowy February, one drinks in colour wherever she finds it.

On our morning walk, Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a frozen puddle. As cold as the morning was, a little melting was going on, and the evolving concavity was a work of art in progress.