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It snowed again last night, just enough to leave a white dusting in the scooped bowls of matted grass that give our fields a blown desert look. This morning’s air was bracingly fresh with an icy wind. I love when it flings my hair about, though I should have worn a hat. I’m not longing for summer. Heat makes me dull; chill awakens me. Plus, the bugs. Soon we’ll have to screen the windows; by the time the lilacs bloom, clouds of blackflies will make sitting still outdoors impossible. Last weekend’s tent sleeping was frigid, but survivable. Spending the evening by a roaring campfire, staring mesmerized at the crackling flames and dancing sparks, was magical. An open fire does more than warm; it tranquilizes, elicits contemplation. Today’s fire in the woodstove is nice, but not the same. To be in the presence of this living, breathing, elemental force is heavenly, way better than TV. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 241: 154 words, TOTAL = 39,557; 20,443 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
March 2021
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