The Last Week

These are the final days of the year at Stonepile. Once again, camped out before the fireplace, dogs in and on or under the sleeping bags, head beside me on the pillow the past two nights. I gave them and the daughter, across the room in her own sofabedding, the slip, off to my own bed with my wife. It is fun because it is only temporary; we will be out of here none too soon. Tonight, I worry, will be ten degrees below freezing, and that could prove to be a problem. We shall soon see. Most evident besides the chilled breath in the air is the rush of northwest wind across the tarpaulined roof, the brilliant red of certain small trees, the chartreuse of the frozen bittersweet, and the seaward march of white-capped waves. Suddenly, there are no leaves left in the trees, all blown away in the past week or two, leaving the skeletal remains to shine a grayish white to my eyes in the morning sun. It is beautiful, as always, but it is time to move camp, to become urbanites again until the time of longer days, of milder temperatures, of spring. I miss it, and I am still here!