Winter wonderland or a scene from Dr. Zhivago? Bleak Midwinter or Edelweiss? I was just playing those songs on the drum. Maybe I’ll blend them together. This is a time of stillness, of thought, a time when the gathering has been done, the cellar full of root vegetables, apples, the barn stuffed with hay. A time of roaring fires, boots, scarves, ice skates beside the door – layers of warmth, a kettle whistling on the stove, a pot of soup hung over the fire, bowls of popcorn to be strung. Images from hopes wishes past present books music.

     I sat on the bed admiring the white landscape outside my window. Mariah tried to shake ice from limbs, some, broken lay on the ground. Evergreens drooping. Freed the deck of wet snow twice Tuesday. Let the three out at 4 this morning – crunchy.

     Frost. Dabs of unexpected snow. Ticks do not hibernate they merely slow down below freezing (diapause). I removed two from Zsolt yesterday. Ticks have a 2–3-year lifespan. The snow, if it comes will end our walking through the perfect habitat for ticks: leaves, water, shade.

     Did someone change something? Did I sleep longer than I thought? Did we skip winter in favor of an early spring? Snow gone, water higher, ice vanished. Blue sky, vanilla clouds docile behind trees. No breeze.

     Gray replaces the orange of dawn. Dee dee dee: Chickadee celebrates November’s last day. Rooster crows. Frost. Snow remains some places. Ice surrounds open water. Ears cold, the three finally ready come inside. 

     Soleil gently waking shares golden light with faces. Sparse snow from yesterday. Frost. Ice. Mariah plays with trees gently. Slice of moon watched over night. Ravens. No rooster. No deer. White clouds companion blue sky. Wooden frame without picture waits to stand behind a clock when I can make a path through books, boxes, other frames with pictures that have no place to hang. Last Saturday of November.

     Dropped a bottle into the recycle bin, rooster crowed. Frost. Deck slippery in slippers. From the fenced-in-land, the three keep eyes on the deck, the door, its opening. Scamper up the ramp, sit in the kitchen for a biscuit. It doesn’t feel cold. It was chilly last evening when I had nothing to lean on to shoot the moon. Dark at 5:25. I remember other mornings in Maine leaving home in the dark, driving an hour to work, leaving work in the dark to drive home; a routine familiar to many. Those days I walked for an hour instead of eating lunch just to observe the light. Soleil has come to light tree trunks, make them shiny; temperature though, isn’t moving.

     Three voices: Pine Siskin, Raven, Evening Grosbeak welcome us into stillness, into wonder. The sky offers her painting with clinging leaves amidst evergreens, too wilted to identify. Marcescence – a pretty word with a magical sound, the word for trees that hold onto dead leaves. The leaves in my photo are probably oak. Beech would be golden. On my last walk in the woods with Bruce, a breeze sang beech leaves to us.

     Blink counts raindrops from all 3 cameras, beeping alerts not keeping the rhythm of the rain. A song from 1963. I was 13. I’ve been waiting for the rain to stop before I let the three out. Drying them requires so much breath. Accuweather keeps extending how long rain will continue. Silver sky finally turning on some light. Six years have passed like day into night. Fog clouds the view. Vanishes.

     Orange spreads across the horizon through white and lavender outlining shapes of trees. Frost. Rooster crows. Zsolt laps water brings jowls full to me. Drum sticks beside the keyboard – varying degrees of softness determine sound. Sky now like raspberry lemon sherbet at least in 3 panes of window. No birds. No deer.

     After the three went out, came in, had a biscuit, came back for another, asked for morning pets while I sat with the nebulizer: I stood on the front deck listening, looking. A sound I did not recognize perhaps a small animal. Merlin did not recognize it as a bird, then again Merlin doesn’t record roosters either. He identified a Raven. There are splashes of blue wax on the rug I could iron onto a paper towel if I knew where was the iron. The three sleep, don’t beg for graham crackers or coffee nor ask for pets while I’m writing.

      Zayne wanted to return to his bed before venturing down the hall. I block his path, urge him forward. He waits for me with Zsolt and Ruger. I need longer arms to reach across the three to open the door. We step onto the deck into November light seeing our breath. Frost. Solar lights about to turn off. I return to the warmth, let the dogs perform morning rituals alone, watch the sky change colors like a kaleidoscope. They return as a bundle, Ruger standing to the side letting the others pass so he doesn’t get stepped on. Treats eaten the three retreat to the sofa, water drips through coffee grounds. I put dishes away. Rhythm of morning – each morning different but framed the same…