11 degrees, day 3 { 100 days outside }

I chose to walk to the mailbox.  I could have pulled my car alongside and lowered my window when I returned home late this afternoon.  It is 11 degrees.  The snow crunched beneath my boots and the dog bounded alongside me.  The door of the mailbox was stiff with cold and inside nearly full from several days' neglect.  As I turned back, bundle of paper in my hands, I looked for something to see.  I heard the soft voice of a single bird calling from somewhere high above.  In patches of snow that clung to the driveway the imprints of dozens of avian feet were revealed in the late afternoon light.  The birds are my delight when the world is frozen.  They are life while the blooming world slumbers.  


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