The road to go down is now icy, slushy, treacherous. The little black pickup has tube-sand in the bed to ballast the rear wheels on ice & snow. The manual transmission is oh-so-useful when negotiating iffy roads. Most important, there is a little ristra hanging from the grill in homage to the northern New Mexico winter.
Little birds of hardiness visit our seed buffet on the portal. They are importunate, and we throw additional handsful of seeds out onto the snow, where they descend en masse and partake. Yesterday a miracle yellow-jacket somehow, some way found its way into the sitting room and buzzed around, arousing the curiosity of dog and human alike. It was found, gently nudged into a jar, given sugar water and tucked into the pantry to await the sun on the morrow. Strict instructions were given to release it only at midday when the sun was warmest (a relative concept in the depth of winter). Well, today at midday there was a fierce little snowstorm, so no go at lunchtime for the yellow-jacket. Tomorrow may restore it into nature.
Saturday, day after tomorrow, is the shortest day of the year. High hopes for the miracle winter yellow-jacket to find its way.
Stay tuned for posts on George Orwell: one's latest trend in reading, beyond Animal Farm and 1984, preceding them, actually. Has that whetted your appetite?
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