We awoke this morning to a drizzly cool gray day, a day antithetical to accomplishment and drive. The pull to curl up by the fire and knit is strong, but the time-sucking computer is stronger, urging me to get lost in it, to search for new podcasts and free music from independent, unsigned groups. This day calls for that second pot of coffee and staying in fleece slippers and warm pajamas longer than typically accepted.
Outdoors the ruminants seem comfortable in the gloom. Their ancestors came from the northern British Isles, from the mountains of Turkey, and from the highest Andes. A little mist is nothing compared to what they have evolved to endure and their contempt of any discomfort on our parts is palatable.
The chickens aren’t quite so cocky, pardon the pun. They huddle in their coop, as if, a la the wicked witch of the west, they would melt if water hit feathers, or at the least they would get mad, madder than the proverbial wet hen. Their relation to the turkeys and especially the ducks must be distant, as these other birds relish the wet, eagerly embracing any moisture that falls, gobbling and quacking in unfettered delight.
The pint-sized farmer isn’t fazed nor aware of any of these happenings.
“Side,” he says, pointing toward the back door. “Side, yeah!”
“No,” I say. “It’s too cold and too early to go outside.”
He pulls on my seated figure, willing me to get up and brave the admittedly not-so-severe elements but I protest, instead turning on his favorite choo-choo show and selfishly heading back to the computer.
Today I get to blame my lack of activity and pull towards downright laziness on the weather. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and get things done. That is, unless it's raining of course.
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