Early December days in this corner of the world are all too short, and they are cold. The wind is icy on our old bones, and they protest their ordeal.
One is grateful for small things in the dark days of the year. The frozen grass is crunchy underfoot, and the frosted trees on the edge of the field are skeletal, but oh, the morning light. Everything sings and dances. Everything sparkles.
The Solstice is only a few weeks away, and thank the Old Wild Mother, daylight will return after that, little by little. We (Beau and I) reckon we can do this darkling stuff, and by golly, we will. There will be creaking and grumbling until then, but we will drink in the scant light of these darkling days as if it is fine French brandy.
When December 21 arrives, we will be jubilant, and we will be downright silly. We will lurch about in gladness and try not to fall over.
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