It is winter

Not because the air is colder,

or the days shorter,

 and

the morning commute slower

and slippery,

sloshing on single lane roads,

in early gray, blue light that looks like the entrance to heaven

when straight rays reach from the heavy clouds

and I feel I should say an "Amen" and take a moment to ask for direction for the day

I pray for patience and understanding

and the right words while

heading due north

behind yellow school buses

and weighted pick ups with

logs shifting side to side

with each bend in the road

carefully, and old drivers heading to their morning appointments

cigarette smoke swirling from the crack in the window

slow creaking neck turns side to side

merciless braking

then end of day

quieter, smoother ride home under silhouettes of creaking trees

wild turkeys huddled on the new crunchy snow the ground

is not quite ready to receive

I shiver just looking at them

dark and lost

Once home

opening the door

to the wood heat blast and the smell of 

bacon cooked late morning

after Tim's routine of coffee and reading,

correspondence

and a handful of vitamins

Lights on 

and changing clothes fast

tugging on boots

wrapping our necks

for a walk 

catching the last light from the top of the village,

washes of pale yellow light and gray that soften my heart

which is sometimes heavy from the day

our fingers twist together through wool gloves

as we look out, trying to

catch our breath

in the night air