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.


Anyone seen the coop?

Anyone seen the coop?


*Little House in Suburbia-style.

Copyright 2013, Lori Fontanes