Bliss, below zero

The thick frost on my windowpane obscures the reality.

Yet I know it’s below zero, even if I can’t decipher the numbers on my old thermometer.

I take my morning cue from the dogs.

To the sounds of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” on the radio, and the scent of chicken soup steaming in the crock pot, I unwind in the Sunday morning stillness.

Raising my red slippered feet up on the ottoman and pulling Grandma’s thick afghan over my shoulders, I smile as I watch the pups sleep.

The soft snoring of the canine duo accompanies Vivaldi’s “Winter” beautifully.

With heavy eyelids I soon make that duo, a trio.


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