I step onto the back patio in snow boots and pajamas as the sun glints rose through snow blanketed branches.
It’s Sunday morning, and the world is hushed, wrapped thick and still. I pull my parka closed with one hand, and with the other click my camera as I duck under boughs bowed heavy. The remnants of yesterday’s snowball war are still visible in the scuffed and trampled snow, where bodies tumbled and snow was shaken free from collars and cuffs. But all is quiet now. The birds still sleep in their nests as the new day dawns in expectant wonder.
Later I can’t help myself. I’m back outdoors again, and this time as the sun dips low it’s warm enough to shuffle through melting backyard snow without a coat. Rowan leaps at the pine tree, stick in hand, dislodging clumps of snow in radiant showers while I bend close to a single glistening pine needle pirouretting like a dancer in the breeze. We are both happy, each doing our own thing beneath the jeweled boughs.
After the sun slips below the roof I retreat indoors and watch shadows slide over the backyard. Melted snow pools on the tile under my boots as blue dusk descends over a backyard Eden. I stand in my damp socks at the window and watch.
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