She marveled at the winter that wasn’t. Snow drops forming buds. Ground pliable. Window box begonias still blooming. Breath not condensed to exhaled fog. Scarf loose around neck. No skiff of snow to record in daily bird count.
She could imagine it was early spring – that frozen moment between winter and spring; between death and rebirth.
A marker, a sign that winter had not gone on a Caribbean cruise: early morning frozens – solid water in the shallow bird baths; skim of ice across the top of the koi pool. Freezing dispensed by noon. Frozen only over night.
“Global warming in my back yard,” she thought. “Arctic’s melting; my space isn’t frozen.”
She blew steam across the top of her coffee mug. To be sitting on a lawn chair, with only one sweater double-up and no hat and gloves, under a winter-blue sky on January 3 was both wonderous and scareful. A frozen moment captured by her camera. A frozen moment soon to be thawed.
Yesterday a wonderful surprise. My camera died in December 2013. Now I have 90% access to a used replacement, and a brand new photo editing program. Learning curve for both.