Last night, gale winds roared in like a freight train on steroids. As promised, the temperatures plummeted from yesterday’s delightful, walk-around-outside-in-just-a-sweater-weather, don’t pile on the winter boots, hats, scarves and mittens, take the dogs for a long, rambling walk around the canal day. When I poked my head out the back door just a while ago, bracing myself against three dogs piling up behind me because Jasper was in desperate straits to get outside, the blast of wind that banged the outer storm door against the outside of the house smacked me in the face. That arctic tingle I expected to feel on my skin? Missing. Had I wanted to tumble outside in the midst of my three dancing dogs wearing just my sweats and hoodie, I could have.
Against the backdrop of a wall of blustery sound, I feed dogs, shoo the cats off the kitchen counter, poor coffee and head back upstairs, one dog (Tessa) trailing at my heels. It’s my favorite time of day when I can pull words out of the air and make them do my bidding, as
hard easy as pulling rabbits out of a hat.