It is 17 degrees here this morning.
At 17, the chicken’s water is all frozen.
At 17, the eggs are cleaner.
At 17, the wood in the heater is almost all burned up.
At 17, the goats are actually in the barn, where they should be in the morning.
At 17, I’m reluctant to go outside, but once I’m out and working it feels just fine.
Judy is still without kids. Marla is hobbling. Rita and Gypsy are sick. And Joey is bounding around, absolutely delighted that it is 17 degrees.
There was a deer behind the house this morning, staring at me as I grumbled my way outside. Today I’ll take up the trampled remains of the fences around the gardens, grudgingly acknowledging defeat. For next year, Will has suggested land mines.