It was raining a bit when Jerry and I tucked ourselves in our downy den last night. He drifted off first, making gentle sleep noises. For awhile, I lay quite still, listening to the wind as it blew from the lake, bustled through the lanes and roads, then slapped up the hill where sets our house.
Around 3:00, we both awoke to the sound of pelting rain and punching wind. I knew Jerry was awake, for I heard him mutter his displeasure as he buried deep into the covers. He's sick of winter.
At 5:30 when I arose, I pulled the front blinds, and stared into thick fog…and across the way, white roofs. Looking more closely, I saw our lawn was again white, with a thin layer of totally unpredicted snow. The thermometer hanging outside the kitchen window read 31 degrees.
He has a robust fist, this man called winter '06. He arrived late, but has pulled up an easy chair, poured himself a drink, and thrown off his shoes. He likes it here.