A day for looking out of windows, not for venturing out of doorways. When the wind whistles up here aside the mountain it wails a truly chilling song, one about freezing days and bitter nights, times that can seem to last an eternity of shivers.
I have a love hate relationship with wintertime, especially this seeming endless stretch from Groundhog Day to the first hesitant steps of spring. Bleak is exactly the appropriate word for the emotion, when the only really acceptable comforts are a heavy blanket draped around hunched shoulders, and a mug of steaming coffee, or even more suitably rich soup, clutched precariously in unfeeling fingers.
Only two notions occupy my mind, one the thought of climbing back into the loving embrace of the pile of quilts and pillows that might far too simply be labeled but a bed, and secondly the ever-diminishing pile of firewood that mysteriously shrinks in unison with these plummeting temperatures.