The night before the storm, I held the children hands as they fell asleep and looked through the window. One yellow light glowed in the dark.
When we moved here, over a year ago, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, still a stranger to time, sit by the kitchen window and gaze at my neighbor’s house. That windowly shaped light in the dark made me feel as if someone else was up and awake, allowing nighttime play its gentle song upon the restless mind.
It snowed all night and it snows all day. I sit by the window and watch the white accumulate in great silence. I name it colors: white skies, dark brown trunks and branches, gray trees silhouettes in the distance and the ones nearby present a pure geometric celebration of bright fluffy crosses and triangles.
A fox glimpsed and disappeared into the forest. Deers startled and rushed away as I opened the kitchen door. Hungry birds approached the feeder.
Fire in the fire place and
children play.
Shirley in America 