The snow fell in wisps during the night. I awoke to the peachy light casting its glow on the dusted firs outside but felt no hurry to rise. A couple of jays arrived, lightly bouncing on thin branches and began to “shack shack shack shack shack”. Perhaps hoping for stray duck food, but not at all aware that little boys don’t eagerly wake up to rush to chores. Unless there’s snow.
I suppose it was a little mean given the insignificant measure, but it was time to get up anyway. I plodded down the stairs and whispered in his ear.
“Hmmmm…?” was the murmur in response, not convinced.
“There’s Snow,” I said, and stood back. Because I knew his eyes would pop open (they did) and he’d jump out of bed (he did), and he’d rush outside to let the ducks out and feed the dog (on time…which he did). I strained to make out the tune he was whistling but the rhythmic clinking of Shepherd’s dog tag on the metal bowl competed.
The mug I cupped was warm as I watched, and I thought of friends still in the “country”. I knew what they were doing: checking on the livestock, thawing water troughs as necessary, making sure the poultry didn’t have frozen fingers or combs. They were milking their animals, keeping their heads warm against the bellies of their beasts. They’d come in from the cold, their faces red and biting, and rubbing their fingers together. I know, because I used to do that, too.
The scraping distracts me. My son is now hauling a blue, round plastic disc out from the garage in hopes of getting some sledding in. It’s a little pathetic, the paths uncovering pokes of green grass, but he’s happy. I consider, tracing the lines of snow along the tree limbs with my gaze. Asking myself.
I’m happy, too. I don’t need the snowman right now.