Spent most of the day on the benches overlooking Horsethief Creek. Looked for birds. Heard a few, but they stayed hidden. Not like spring. The dogs roamed slow. My heart is heavy. Even after minus 16 the ground is not frozen.
November always starts innocently enough. The garden still had kale, beets and chard a few days ago. The lakes have ice around the edges. In a few more days they will be frozen over.
We had a skiff of snow on Sunday. It looks like it could be here to stay. Somewhere along the line winter became my favourite season. Firewood and long underwear are pleasures that can’t be denied. The nights are dark and long, the tourists relent and the grays turn and hold from sky to shore.
The old dogs are tired. They explored the benches. Ara sleeps at my feet and doesn’t move when I get up or think of the bush. Slinky is asleep with Lisa. The dogs will need out a few times before morning.
The sun set over the ridge, lighting the mountains in the east, pulling up the sides to the ridges, turning the tops pink, then the clouds.
The dogs have kept their end of the bargain. Now it’s up to me. We wandered home slow each knowing some winter will be our last.