83.

Late December.

England is very white; clogged with snow, airports jamming up, ferries scooping up the remainders, Euro tunnel on go slow. Great arms of feathered snow reach out over the lanes and paths. Rimed frost, blue and gold,  over the surfaces. A hedgerow on a hill rim is  like a paper cut out, the setting sun at its roots; branches of purple black and a trimmed table top. 

Children squawk on sledges and two women of a certain age enjoy a polished slope on an old and perfect Swiss toboggan, landing in the hedge at the bottom and rolling over, blowing white ice from our mouths and noses. Rosy with fun, that's us.

Red wings fall from the sky defeated by this harsh winter. One in the middle of the road, all hopes lost. I cut up apples and fling them where I can.

Long, sleek shafted leeks slip easily from the frozen soil for a big, family soup pot. No quarrels like the mass of starlings beyond the window.