The Weekend

After Friday’s bitter winter storm, Saturday was very much like living inside of a snowglobe.  The high winds had ceased and the snow continued, falling gently… leaving everything looking like the winter wonderland it should be in January.
Although bitterly cold on Sunday, everyone seemed to be enjoying the winter weather.  The deer came up out of the hollow and were grazing on the knoll most of the afternoon.  And Bella despite having two shelters and a dog house at her disposal, chose to sleep out on the side of the hill under the goat tree. 

Sunday Muse


Out of the bosom of the Air.
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow