The first week passed in a torturous blur. The second week I fared little better. Every morning I’d peek at the thermometer before I left, hoping for a -5, or – 3, or maybe even -8 degrees. But no, every morning, the thermometer taunted me with -16, or -14, or even -18. Sigh. Sasha had to put on her hated booties and then we headed out into the dark cold.
The third week I noticed something.
Birds were singing. As I made my way down the first block a cardinal called out. A cardinal friend responded. Smaller birds a little farther away twittered.
Oh, happy day.
My breath misted in the dark and my boots squeaked on the cold snow, but birds sang.
Spring is coming.
I know, because the little birdies told me.