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My cubicle window at work faces out over the lake. The sun is low now and comes in even near noon with extra light bouncing off the water. It's warm on my neck above the thick sweater I'm wearing. The water is very low and though it's not frozen yet the ground is. In the mornings when the air is below -10C and the water still holds onto its summer heat the whole expanse, lakes and rivers, steams and smokes with the pink sunrise colouring it.
Outside we skipped fall and went straight into winter. The birch trees didn't have time to drop their leaves and hang limply yellow. My driveway is frozen and mud season is over. Under the deepening crust of hard soil the ground is dry, dry, dry. My little seasonal creek hasn't been full at all this year. We have no snow yet, nothing to insulate the cold from driving into the ground.
My house is cozy and the geese bunch together overnight in a single social entity. In late spring they'll pair or trio off and spread to all corners of the fenced area, but for now they stay close. Every night the moon is bright enough to cast shadows inside my bedroom window and give me a clear view of Solly watching from atop her pile of woodchips. In the mornings I put on the kettle for tea and bring around unfrozen water to everyone while it boils; we all drink together.
Nights come early and hard. By 6 my body is done and can only lie there in the companionship of cats and the warmth of the fire. I do chores before work because I can't make myself move to do them after. Every night I think of the weightlessness of a bath but go to bed instead.
Building a doghouse is waiting for a free day. Clay is waiting for a free day. Snow and freezing rain lurk at the end of the weekly forecast over and over, waiting to surprise me by suddenly approaching closer.
They say winter is a time of rest but it's a time of carrying full buckets instead of hoses, of managing water that will accumulate where it stands until April, of shoveling snow and carrying wood. My mind might like to rest within this rhythm but work won't allow it, though I have a week or two more of walking the bush alone before I need to focus on jumping through mental hoops. Hopefully I'll be up to it by then.
In the meantime I prepare for a week in the field, with sunlight warm on my neck.
Outside we skipped fall and went straight into winter. The birch trees didn't have time to drop their leaves and hang limply yellow. My driveway is frozen and mud season is over. Under the deepening crust of hard soil the ground is dry, dry, dry. My little seasonal creek hasn't been full at all this year. We have no snow yet, nothing to insulate the cold from driving into the ground.
My house is cozy and the geese bunch together overnight in a single social entity. In late spring they'll pair or trio off and spread to all corners of the fenced area, but for now they stay close. Every night the moon is bright enough to cast shadows inside my bedroom window and give me a clear view of Solly watching from atop her pile of woodchips. In the mornings I put on the kettle for tea and bring around unfrozen water to everyone while it boils; we all drink together.
Nights come early and hard. By 6 my body is done and can only lie there in the companionship of cats and the warmth of the fire. I do chores before work because I can't make myself move to do them after. Every night I think of the weightlessness of a bath but go to bed instead.
Building a doghouse is waiting for a free day. Clay is waiting for a free day. Snow and freezing rain lurk at the end of the weekly forecast over and over, waiting to surprise me by suddenly approaching closer.
They say winter is a time of rest but it's a time of carrying full buckets instead of hoses, of managing water that will accumulate where it stands until April, of shoveling snow and carrying wood. My mind might like to rest within this rhythm but work won't allow it, though I have a week or two more of walking the bush alone before I need to focus on jumping through mental hoops. Hopefully I'll be up to it by then.
In the meantime I prepare for a week in the field, with sunlight warm on my neck.
