Thaw’d

“It’s amazing the difference a bit of sky can make.” -Shel Silverstein

Buzzzz.

The last mosquito of the season is making the most of things, landing on my ear, reminding me to get outside. I’m not nostalgic for a summer long gone. I’m excited for the wonder of now. As the temperature drops, furnaces, boilers and heated seats conspire to make things comfortable. It’s warm at my desk and at home and in the car too. I appreciate being warm but I love thawing. Thawing requires something to be frozen first. Thawing requires an uncomfortable cold. One can’t happen without the other.

The snow of December has arrived in all its glory. The piles of leaves that didn’t get raked up will need to wait a few months. The snow has transformed them into heavy mounds, destined to rest until spring. On clear mornings the sun comes up late and despite the small door being left open on the buttoned-up coop, the chickens stay on their roost. I feel the same way on some mornings, but not today. It’s an early trainer day so I spin my legs.

After work, it’s a half-chance for a weeknight adventure. The moment comes where ten more minutes of delay means scrapping the whole thing. Let’s roll. The arc from worker to partner to dad to cook to guide happily flows from one role to the next. It’s getting dark outside, a quarter to five o’clock. The kids grab various headlamps, jackets, gloves and flashlights. They hold their dinner plates with two hands and load into the car. It's Tuesday and we’re off to the Fox Parcel. As I drive, they eat. We park off Ruggles, shivering as the snow comes down. It’s cold. We walk the mile of red trail to the bridge and turn off all our lights in the clearing. As our eyes adjust, the moon and stars are brighter than we imagined. We stop at the bridge for a snack and then turn home. Everyone is warm and running and hiding and telling stories. We’re thawed under a shared bit of sky.

木漏れ日,
Andy