A brilliant scrap of waning moon rose before dawn this morning and could be seen through the bare trees in our garden. Luna was a fey and compelling presence through the bedroom draperies, and sleeping was well nigh impossible.
Temperatures were well below zero overnight. As I watched the moon from my pillow, I could hear the north wind dancing across the roof and through the eaves of the little blue house in the village. When the wind moved through them, the icicles dangling from the roof of the potting shed rang like bells, and the whole snowbound garden seemed to be in motion, the cedars swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.
On this icy morning in February, I am grateful for small things, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, the sputtering of the Di Longhi espresso machine in a corner of the kitchen, homemade sourdough crisping in the toaster, the square of blue sky seen through a window when the clouds roll away for a while, the warmth of a coffee mug cradled in my gnarly paws as I look out across the garden.
Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little appreciation and gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows.
Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight this morning to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a puddle. As cold as the morning was, there was melting going on, and the lagoon at our feet was a work of art in progress.
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