White dreams

BiL has twice had the experience of reading his fiction book, and looking up and noting that what he is reading is happening outside. Tonight it was the wind, coming up. Oh good. He's reading about a blizzard. Hey, I'm for it.

Our autumn, except for a bountiful October snowstorm, has skimped on the white stuff. It makes me get the creepy crawlies, smelling the air for snow as if that will make it come. I have this gnawing feeling that it should be well snowed here by now, but the only consistent snowcover is on our driveway and on the upper roads. The slopes are spotty, more than half the ground with the tall brown grasses exposed. Hunting season has been expanded to give hunters the advantage on the elk still lingering at the high altitudes. Temperatures are cold enough... nighttime lows in the teens, highs in the 30's, but the moisture goddess is holding back, teasing us with clouds or hiding out altogether, chased by the the sun of the shortening days.

I should be thankful, a drive to Nebraska shortly in my future. I'll be delivering the stained glass piece I have been working on for so long, as well as tying up the final ends (I hope) of Dad's estate and (best of all) seeing some friends and family on the plains. I have driven that way, my knuckles white with tension on the icy stretches of Buffalo and Sheridan, and I am happy to think I might cruise along safely on dry roads this time, coming and going.

But here, at home, a little snowpack on the road leaves me wanting more. The wind is still dancing outside. 'Time now to bring in some more wood and stoke up the fire.