Which is just what I did.
It’s 6 a.m.; my husband sleeps in the next room as I write. I’m thinking I should put on my boots and start shoveling; he’s still dreaming. I haven’t changed completely. I’m still an early morning, get-up-and-go type gal.
But as I push snow off the walks and sweep the steps, I’ll pause regularly to take in the black and gray of a chickadee flitting from branch to feeder; and to enjoy the sight of millions of snowflakes descending from the sky, each at its own measured pace.
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