I awoke to the sound of snow falling; tiny flakes coming down fast and furious. The mountains invisible in their cloak of clouds, the tips of the cedars all done in a soft white. Our patio furniture, the cedar table and bench, the blue plastic chairs are slowly disappearing under a fine, white film. The bird feeder has no customers this morning, the birds are sleeping in so it will be brunch by the time they get going. The Siberian crab apple tree is still lush with fruit; tiny, tiny yellow orbs that should have been picked and bottled in our favourite vodka. Instead I decided to leave the tree as is for the birds to feast on.
I walk out to the garden, snowflakes thickening my eyelashes, and gently harvest the velvety leaves of the sage plants. A gift from the garden; is there anything better?