Artic Invasion

A biting wind swept off the roof carrying a swirling dust of crystallized snow. It blew across the yard as if a baker shook out the flour from his apron. The wind-powered cat vane endlessly pawed at the tin butterfly its silhouette contrasted against the blanket of snow. The flight of the chickadees resembled leaves tossed about in the updrafts as they rode invisible waves of artic air on their determined way to the feeder that hung under the skeleton branches of the maple tree which rattled in the wind with the somber sound of dead bones. Any bee or bear or bud that stirred from their dormant state during the warmth of December has retreated to the hive and den to wait out the last six weeks of winter—at least according to the over-stuffed rodent Punxsutawney Phil. The air was so cold that any thing more than the shallowest of breath froze nose hairs.

One week of winter for me.

When was the last time I watched the Super Bowl with my Dad? Weren’t those commercials just awful?