Grey Morning.

As I pass by the sink, a giant blue jay lands on the feeder just outside the window.  I stop mid pour to watch it, eat and turn to fly away.  The dog ambles out of the pirate’s bedroom, the traitor, and leans against my knees and looking up sleepily at me.  I throw on a jacket hung over a chair by the door and in the garage I slip on my clogs.  I wander around the backyard, scooping up small brown gifts, and then toss the results over the fence into the woods.  I stumble about in the snow which is like one of those chocolate and powdered sugar cookies, coating but not covering, and down the steps, noting how my foot prints are now criss crossed with those of squirrels, rabbits, deer and dog.  I step into the kitchen again, only now it is the red back of a cardinal at the feeder.  I wash the dishes as I watch it fly away.  I finish the ablutions of the morning routine and step back into the kitchen, Bart, whom I would have named Buddha or Bodhisatva, is crouched on the counter watching the birds too.  He is the calmest, most cuddly cat I have ever encountered, calmly sitting next to the hissing bitch kitty, waiting for her to love him.  He rolls over against my belly pressing his upside down nose to my face, purring like a motorboat.

It is the fourth of March.  It is hovering close to freezing and the snow is drizzling down literally one flake at a time.  The birds are singing.  But it is grey and still feels like winter.

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