The Sand Truck
A small orange yellow light blinks it’s way along the top road, across the open view of the living room window, distinctly noticeable in the blackness of the early morning.
The sand truck.
It must be icy out there.
I’m certainly feeling the chill in getting up, and have wrapped myself in the Icelandic wool blanket some friends gave a few years back.
Geese clamour their way through the dark sky. I can’t see them, I can only hear them. I wonder what they are thinking right now. Maybe that clamour is them muttering to themselves as they tumble through the air: “ *&%$! cold….”
I’ll go out to greet my robin friend when it gets lighter. Or rather, she will come over to greet me, as seems to be the case lately, the prospect of seeds being a strong motivating factor. The robin is gradually building a trust in me, as she seems to get bolder and closer every time I see her.
Yesterday, I was down on the shore for a short walk, bracing myself against the damp frigid wind, to get a dose of the fresh air. It was a point in the day that called for clearing the cobweb of taxes and other business. When I got down to the beach it was low tide and I noticed that some of the water between the rocks and seaweed had frozen. It must have happened because of the fresher water trickling down from the old mill, merging with seawater, or temperatures have dropped lower than usual.
My coffee has got cold, like the weather. Time to make another.
I don’t like cold coffee, especially on days like today.
When I get up to switch on the kettle I’m struck by the warm bright colours reflected on the far wall.
The sky is getting pink, very pink.
Orange light + pink sky in the morning = shepherds (and pedestrians) warning.
Are we to be ready for rough seas and wild weather?
I’d been planning to go out for a drive this afternoon, but we shall see. Things are turning bleak and somewhat wet. I think instead I’m going to choose the guilty pleasure of staying firmly inside beside a warm fire with a book.