A Morning of Wind and Small Chores

A few hardy pansies still flowering in the old tub.

The wind has been churning the pond to restless ripples. Earlier three of the Mallards paddled about. On a sunless day the landscape is at its most drab.

I brought back to Wyoming the potted "mum" which I bought in Vermont to place on my parent's grave the day of my Dad's service. It was a lovely one with dark red blossoms. It languished on the way back and quickly "went by". I plonked it on the porch and left it. Noticed this weekend that there was new growth of foliage. I have placed it on the table in the cool back entry hoping it might flower again.

My order of paperwhite narcissus was delivered Monday. I have to order them online. In Vermont I could buy them at several area stores, notably an Agway Farm and Home emporium, bringing home a few at a time. They were available from early November through Christmas time. I planted them in succession and had the heavily scented flowers for weeks. They make nice gifts, tucked into a shallow pot and supported by glistening washed pebbles which can be bought in craft stores by the bag.

This year I have planted a bag of the bulbs in a soil mix. The stones are laid around them in an effort to discourage little cat paws from rummaging.

The wind began howling last evening like the proverbial banshee--shrieking around the corners of the house and buffeting the windows. I put on my down robe, made tea and curled in my shabby wing chair with a book and a succesion of cats who decided my lap was a good place to be. A bit past midnight I was back in the chair, with the book. It wasn't, for whatever reason, a good night for sleep.

The sun made a feeble attempt to shine through roiling clouds about noon, but has given up. I realized that plant pots and small gardening tools were still littering the porch, so have been trundling them round to store in the garage. The weather over the mountains has changed by the minute--all of it looking menacing with dark clouds and spatters of rain on the wind.

The cats, having spent much of the night and the early morning rushing dementedly through the rooms, have collapsed in furry lumplets on the bed, exhausted with their duties of prophesying weather change.

I've rescued towels and pillowcases from the clothesline and must go to the quilt shop to finish a special order. I tell the cats that I work at my little job to provide them with food and litter. They, of course, see this as only their due, and blink groggy blue eyes in acknowledgement of my comments.

A Mourning Dove sits on a branch of the biggest cottonwood near the cabin, her feathers adding another shade of grey in this landscape of bleached and wind-scourged too-early winter.