A lazy Sunday. No work to be had, I sat outside in the warmth of the shallow arched sun, the puppy curled up at my feet, fast asleep. A familiar wind blows, purposeful with its secret agenda. The signs of winter still hold fast; snow grips the high vistas and northern most slopes, trees still hide their buds. The river flows on carrying the Winter's fall off to the West. Eleven days remain until my work is to be finished.
Days are checked off and the river runs fast and furious with snow melt; dry banks now wet, water turbulent. I know how it feels.
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