Dead of Winter

It’s cold outside, the ice clings to my window, hoping for break, perhaps a mid winter heat wave, or a ray of sunshine to melt it away. For now, it obscures my view, leaving us a smaller glimpse of the world outside. The birds flutter about, grateful for the seed I leave them, their frantic assault on the feeders indicitive of the harsh reality of the frozen landscape. Squirrells scurry around the bottom of the pole, their attempts at breaching the squirrel-proof feeders over for the day. Tonight they will return to their nest high above me, sticks and twigs exposed now that the leaves have withered and died, and plan another assault.

 

Mr. Wilson sits on the bed near the window and watches the struggle for food and survival. Does he remember that the frozen landscape will soon give way to budding trees, crocus flowers pushing through thawing earth and warmth? Or is he content to sit inside, surrounded by warmth of a iciclesdifferent kind and live for the moment?

 

Icicles as long as I am tall hang from the roof, somehow getting bigger every day. The tempature has not seen twenty in days, I wonder how they continue to grow.

What little heat the late winter sun provides must be enough to begin the thaw that I know is coming. I sit next to my pal, and see the palate of white and crystal, snow sparkling on the surface, two feet below grass begining to consider turning green, and take it all in, knowing that before long we will be back outside in the little world we have created.

 

There is a lot of life in a quarter acre lot in the middle of suburbia. Watching it unfold from inside is sweet when the subtle aroma of short ribs flows from the slow-cooker, there is food in the dish and people and pets to share it with. Spring is a few months away, but right here, right now, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be.

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