It’s been unseasonably warm this autumn; on Saturday I was still wearing light jackets over summer dresses in the balmy 14 degree days, surreal when there’s so little daylight left to go around.
This is not, typically, what November looks like.
But winter arrived Sunday morning, and the dogs stood sentinel to greet it.
I love the first proper snow of the season, the one that sticks, that muffles the shape of the world.
Look closely and you can almost see writing in the understory, a letter the season’s scripting even as it covers the world in the quiet of a blank page.
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