81.

Mid December.


The river runs a torrent and the sun in its midday hours sparkles a 15 deg. warmth. I sit on a tussock and watch the water call back to  the bole of an ancient, tubby willow leaning over the opposite bank.The ripples flicker, fold and regain positions over the ridged willow bark in lovely flowing patterns of yellow, green and white, reflected light.

Nuthatches pipe their ways along and up the trees.The sun warms my back and  I am held still by that and the light play..

Back home Bertrand and Sylvie's fire has not been working well;  dark smoke billows and curls over the roofs and Sylvie is outside in a quilted coat that reaches over her boots. She is waving through the kitchen window to her brother who eventually emerges covered in soot. We do all laugh. My fire is glowing hot and the flames lick clean the stove glass door. I am smug knowing that.