It's only about 10 below as I walk out onto the road and around to The Hill.

Hill. That still strikes me ironic.

The air is not that wall of solid cold that hits you in the face at 30 below, but when I have my gloves off to handle the camera, the wind cuts the back of my hand and bites my fingers.

They sting even after I've pulled my naked hands like turtle heads into three warm layers of sleeves.

Walking back toward the yard, I imagine being lost and freezing to death, just slowing down gradually until I stop moving. In the dark. Tip of nose a frozen lump.

 

And now, away from my window and off to prepare a fabulous feast.

xoxo
etc
kate