Contemplation on an early November morning


I was up early today. There was a thick killing frost on the grass, and on the shingles for that matter. The world glittered, white, like somebody had taken it in his head to sprinkle sea salt over everything. I stepped out into the cold (the radio informed me, when my alarm clock went off, that it was -1 this morning. My slippers left indentations in the frozen grass, and the tale end of an orange sunrise on the horizon made the trees in the distance strange, glittering shadows. The migration of geese was going full swing overhead. They flew high over me, flock after flock, honking as if they had something really important to say, and needed to say it quickly. There were even a few seagulls, though nothing like the huge flocks I've seen during the summer monthes. The world was uncharacteristically silent and still around me, and I enjoyed it. under such circumstances, a man can be alone with himself, and with his thoughts.
It seemed to me as though the land, much like the city, was asleep. The garden has more or less been put to bed...where there was a mass of colour, there is now empty, bare dirt. Those few brave flowers and weeds I mentioned earlier have gone, with the exception of some pansies by the driveway, which will probably never die. I know now why, in some cultures, storytelling was reserved for winter.


Then I heard a door open, and barking. Apparently the dogs took offence at my being outside without them. So ended the morning's contemplation...one cannot introspect properly with a West Highland White Terrier sharing his opions on life. Suffice it to say, though, that it was beautiful.