Custom Made

This morning I woke to the sight of small hard flakes of snow swirling outside the kitchen window. White dust covered parts of the lawn, and squirrels huddled with their tails fluffed and pressed high against their back sides while they picked cast-off birdseed out of the grass. Birds--chickadees, juncos, finches, nuthatches, and the occasional cardinal--flitted frenetically around the cold metal feeder while it swayed in the wind. I don't envy them the necessity of eating hurriedly in the discomfort of a frozen-stiff wind, lest they die from a lack of calories to light their tiny internal furnaces. Birds are smart, but not smart enough, I hope, to grudge us our warm house with its sweaters and blankets.

Now, late in the afternoon, the snow has stopped and only the leaves still clinging to the trees shift and swirl in the wind. I have the day off, and I've already done most of the small tasks I assigned myself. I know that now I should settle into the bigger ones--studying Spanish and writing--but days like this were made for blankets and cats and hot liquid in mugs and reading Jane Austen with a view of the window. I'd hate to frustrate the weather's purpose. What if I promise to take a notebook and pen to the couch with me for jotting down inspirations from the unreading side of my brain? Would we have a compromise, conscience?