Twas a chill and stormy sky as we drove into a brooding, plainsong dawn.
Eighteen hours, one poor little car whose windows refused to unfog, four Starbucks stops, and one Agatha Christie Poirot audiobook later, we arrived to shelter. Home. Primal comfort. 15-bean soup and Ezekiel bread.
Gnarled old sidewalks with lace draped over their wrinkles. Crunch, crunch, crunch…
Dark, bare branches, silent, writing a song into the sky.
Snowlight, the first sun of the day to break through, fragile as a child with all of its brisk, young laughter.
Home for P.G. Tipps and oven-warmed shortbread. A last bit of sun.
And candlelight. Dinner. Sleep. And a new snow-day morning tomorrow.