Whatever I might pretend, it is now officially cold. Fourteen degrees outside with a wind chill of zero. Even my New Hampshire-raised husband admits that it feels like winter.
There is ice on the grass,
ice on the pond,
and there are trees full of puffed-up birds far too busy squabbling over berries to pay attention to me.
I stayed outside until my fingers were stiff and painful, and my camera ran out of batteries.