With the mercury hovering near zero this morning, I pulled on my layers and ventured out toward our common space.
A few small birds followed over my head, swooping and perching and complaining out loud. A light overnight dusting couldn't hide signs that rabbits, deer and a lone fox had preceded me to the otherwise silent winter woods.
The creek wasn't frozen over -- that surprised me. Sunlight glinted off chunks of ice along the banks. I reached down and scooped up a handful of powdery snow, admiring its glisten for a moment before letting it slip out through my gloved fingers.
This, I thought, is why I live where there are four seasons.
By the way, don't talk to me about how winters somewhere else are harsher or colder, snowier or more picturesque -- of course they are. Climatic competition doesn't interest me, not in the slightest.
This is our winter.
