Yesterday it snowed. Just a tease, but enough to remind me how much I enjoy the crunching echo that accompanies each step throughout the winter months. We walk in patterns of various shapes and sizes. Up hills and down hills and over things and back. The birds we chase are no longer brown, but white. Masters of true disguise, no doubt, but of no match for my olfactory opulence. I must run for the birds and run to keep my paws from freezing solid in place. Two birds, one cold and frigid stone. If you sit patiently and quiet enough, you can almost hear them (the birds) move from willow patch to willow patch. They hide, but I am a better finder than they are at trying not to be found.
The winter air is still and cold.
The sun less warm than it is bright.
But I won’t hide home in my den.
I quite enjoy the Old Man’s bite.
Come, my sweetest winter.
We have much to discuss.