Tonight a cold moon casts bold shadows over a crisp snow. Venus hovers near the lunar crescent, outshining all her co-stars. And the Big Dipper hangs low on the horizon, slopping all its contents over the down-turned handle onto the treetops. A brisk wind bends the tall spruce spires, making the illusion they are bowing under the weight of whatever the dipper is dumping out complete.
Underfoot, the snow creaks a complaint about the weight of my boots. Truth be told, we’d both prefer it was just a little warmer.