Nothing beats the smell of fresh java when you return from the frozen yard, snow speckling your flannel robe, baby icicles tucked inside your boots.* As the rest of suburbia sleeps in or strokes the NY Post via iPad, you were dutifully standing knee-deep in the chilly white stuff, unraveling a frozen release cable on the coop door and sloshing water into bowls for patient poultry.
What are you, nuts?!
Okay, maybe a little crazy. Crazy about the special stillness when SUVs rest in pre-dawn driveways. Before snow-blowers and salt trucks and road plows rupture the post-storm silence. When the sky, etched in tree limbs, ripples quietly from purple-orange to gray-blue.
So, nuts? Perhaps. But you’ll take ducks over Page Six any morning.
*Little House in Suburbia-style.
Copyright 2013, Lori Fontanes