It’s cold this morning, minus 20. The air coming off the southern window is still cool and I’m thankful for my scarf and wool socks.
The tangerine sky has a friendly tousled cast to it. The few clouds at the edge of the horizon are uncertain children being called away but wishing to stay and play.
I like clouds and thinking of them as children.
I like the tender concern on the faces of mothers walking young children across a snow-packed park; children with toques riding up on the back of their heads and over their eyes, tripping over unravelled scarves. Mothers forever releasing and catching.
I like rusting threshing machines knee deep in snow in 40 year-old stands of poplar and I like that this hints to me of Christmas.
I like birch trees, the bark peeling against a low sun, their shadows like totems against unbroken drifts.
I like walking in the cold when the air is still. I like the smell of frost.
I like water frozen in a tin kettle on a soon-to-be-hot wood stove. I like a sharp, well balanced axe, and the way good wood gives way.