Segue aside, the poor euonymus foundation plantings have returned to their winter state: pathetic bald sticks. It takes them until June every year to fill out again! The poor things must dread the first real snow. On the plus side, it’s dead easy to see who dropped by the night before. Squirrel tracks are my favourite - so dainty - but the raccoons’ dexterous feet are also fun to find. The chippies are sawing logs underground but occasionally we see the trail of a glamour puss like a pheasant, the tail drag and long toes giving him away. For some reason the red-bellied woodpeckers have vacated the property. I am miffed because we did, you remember, provide free room and board this year. (Note: between the time I wrote this and now, the mister showed up at the feeder. Just proves that the jungle telegraph is alive and well.) And it would be lovely to run into Mouse (the House Grouse).
Indoors, the fireplace is on, wreaths and mercury glass ornaments have been hung, and gleaming bowls have been filled with pinecones. I'm even toying with the notion of baking something delectable - scones come to mind. But the snow outside muffles all city sounds and I am determined to finish my chores quickly, so as to grab an hour or two with a good book. Barkskins (the new Annie Proulx) and Do Not Say We Have Nothing (the 2016 Giller Prize winner - thanks, Carol) beckon.
Welcome back, Winter!