Deep In January
Posted 01-25-2009 at 07:00 AM by SCGranny
This morning dawned blue-grey. All of the trees are black against the snow. More snow is predicted today and tomorrow, and the flakes float down, are eddied about by the wind. A soft glow of lit windows casts light and shadow on the deepening snows. All there is, is silence... no bustling cars driving by, intent on places to be, no folks yammering in the street, no birds chirping... the deep of winter has come at last.
Sasha the Afghan sits by the window, her blonde and touseled bed-head covering those piercing sight-hound eyes that gaze ever outwards, looking for furry bunny or other movement. She loves the snow; is built for it, with those big shaggy paws like snowshoes, and dances in it like a pup. Phydeaux, much shorter and older, grouses while he is inside but once out in it, belly dragging the drifts, races around with his black ears flying while he barks and laughs.
The occasional cry of the geese overhead, traversing from the neighbor's lake to the lake 50 miles away in the AM and then back again in the evening, is mournful and thoughtful as they call to each other. The old horse in the pasture is too stubborn to come in out of it; as long as there is no wind, she is content to wander, with the small snowdrift on her back like frosting on a chocolate-brown cake. The hills in the pasture are swathed in a grey fog of flurries; the most distant ones invisible, the closest ones like ghostly wraiths, real and then not-real.
Yes I do love winter.
Sasha the Afghan sits by the window, her blonde and touseled bed-head covering those piercing sight-hound eyes that gaze ever outwards, looking for furry bunny or other movement. She loves the snow; is built for it, with those big shaggy paws like snowshoes, and dances in it like a pup. Phydeaux, much shorter and older, grouses while he is inside but once out in it, belly dragging the drifts, races around with his black ears flying while he barks and laughs.
The occasional cry of the geese overhead, traversing from the neighbor's lake to the lake 50 miles away in the AM and then back again in the evening, is mournful and thoughtful as they call to each other. The old horse in the pasture is too stubborn to come in out of it; as long as there is no wind, she is content to wander, with the small snowdrift on her back like frosting on a chocolate-brown cake. The hills in the pasture are swathed in a grey fog of flurries; the most distant ones invisible, the closest ones like ghostly wraiths, real and then not-real.
Yes I do love winter.
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