I awoke to Jim coming home from work. He crawls into bed. His skin is cold, unusual except when he is riding the motorcycle or bike. I ask him about it. He says, "...because it's been snowing all night... It's cold outside".
I ask if there's snow on the ground. He tells me, "There isn't, just a dusting on vehicles".
I am not ready for winter. I have not collected enough nuts.
After Jim gets to sleep, I get up and feed the cat, start the coffee and stare aimlessly out of the kitchen window into the woods. I smell the crisp, oily smell of the coffee dripping. My thoughts wander...
I wonder if the hunters will be back out into the south woods again today, or did they get their fill of venison yesterday? I randomly think of how I remember my grandmother Rose standing just like this in her cabin in Michigan, In her robe, looking out of the window, waiting on the coffee, looking at the birds at the feeder she had just filled.
My Grandmother Rose had the most wonderful bird feeders. She would tend them several times a day, I can remember the rainbow hued finches that would flit about her house when we would visit. There was an almost magical charm to her cabin in the woods that I will never forget.
I stare out at our summer neglected bird feeder on the back deck railing. It's mossy green roof roof and it's scratched plastic sides staring balefully back at me. I can see a spider has taken up residence inside by the frosty webs filled with maple leaves that can be seen through those scratched up plastic sides.
I see the barest of motions on the deck below the birdfeeder, there sits the first bird of the season, waiting for it's winter meal. A mourning dove. It's lavender-grey plumage speckled here and there with a small black lozenge.
I smile, knowing it was time to start the annual tradition that brings me so much joy in the hush of morning. I turn and get the bag of birdfeed I had purchased a few weeks before at the floundering Thifty farm supply store. I hoist it's weight and head for the feeder. I clean out the spider from it's hopeful winter home, rake out the leaves with a flourish and fill it up with the small orange and black seeds that will inevitably sprout under the deck in the spring.
Before I turn to head for the house, I look out into the woods, seeing that dove waiting for me to get back inside, out of it's domain.
I hoist what was left of the birdfeed, stash it in the cat room, go in and get my coffee. Then, I sit down to wait.