Tonight, I’ve turned off the cabin’s lights–all two of them–to better see my first Ozark snowfall.
It’s beautiful and eerily quiet. Living up to my expectations.
But please don’t expect me to go all Robert Frost on you here at The Hayfield Forever and wax poetic over the snowy evening and a hayfield that’s filling up with snow. I don’t have a poetic or lyric bone in my body. Moreover, I’m occcupied. I’ve got one eye on the snowflakes’ slow floating descent and the other for Cathy, who soon should come striding through this wintry night from the farmhouse to help me drink an amazingly strong & smooth rye whiskey I found in cupboards.
I hope she gets here soon. I’d rather be snowbound with both the whiskey and Cathy!
Either way, I’d like to get up tomorrow morning, put what’s left of the rye in my coffee, and then venture outside to see the snow, cabin, and the hay whose mysterious baling is now bookended by a mysterious neglect.
Maybe I’ll even get up at sunrise. That sounds crazy ambitious; do I have cabin fever already?
I hear Cathy’s boots on the porch.
Forget sunrise and fever. What can an old cabron like me say to a beautiful woman who has made such a walk to his door?
Luckily, the ghost of Frost goes all Cyrano on me and whispers a line in my ear: Outside, the hayfield is lovely, dark and deep, but we have good whiskey to drink inside before we sleep.
I bet she laughs when she hears me say it.