The geese so low, to hear their whisper of wing feathers one need only squat close to the open flue.
Cold and blustery.
Wood box brimming with kindling and brown ash, the ways of the world still measurably askew. We’ll be barefoot before we dare to breathe… a fish chowder steaming in the kitchen, our feet to the fire.
On a night so dark we fear we might lose ourselves, comes the moonlight reflected phosphorescent off the virgin snow.