On this November weekend in Buffalo we walk the dog along the same neighborhood streets as we do in July and at Christmas. Gone, however, are the long golden evenings of summer, not yet replaced by merry lights reflected on blankets of snow. Instead, bare boughs shake in a blustery gale blowing dry leaves over faded pumpkins.
I consider myself a cold weather person, always preferring to be too cold rather than uncomfortably warm. Today, though, the wind was a scalpel resecting any hearty resilience I might muster. Shoulders hunched and head bowed I cringed against the cold and wondered what this winter will bring.
Because I know that the weather is far from out of the ordinary, and the rawness? Is all mine.
I consider myself a cold weather person, always preferring to be too cold rather than uncomfortably warm. Today, though, the wind was a scalpel resecting any hearty resilience I might muster. Shoulders hunched and head bowed I cringed against the cold and wondered what this winter will bring.
Because I know that the weather is far from out of the ordinary, and the rawness? Is all mine.
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