The garden has been put to bed. A thin blanket of snow covers the crawling rocks up the hill. The hunting season for whitetails is over. Ice skims over the lakes. The wind shifts, coming out of the northeast, picking up tempo, driving the remaining leaves before it. The snowplow replaces the lawn mower at pole position in the garage. Old manuscript set aside in favor of a blank computer screen. A seemingly endless supply of decoration containers rotate into the house, only to rotate back into the garage after their contents adorns the halls of the manor. Warm fire. Hot tea. Hot shower. Flannel sheets, down comforter, heavy quilt, and purring cats await.
Tales From The Hare 