It's one of those cold mornings where the cocoon of the flannel sheets could keep me there forever. Their softness soothes me, and I feel so warm and perfect that it's hard to think of a reason why I should leave my nest for anything.
The wind is swaying the tree branches, already bare and stark against the dim morning sky. When did that happen? It must have been yesterday. They look cold and stoic, those brave soldiers facing the front line of winter. It's coming, you know.
This sky holds no snow yet, but I hope it comes. I'm waiting for the morning when I wake up, lured from my flannel nest by the cats' insistent meows, and glimpse those thick flakes falling from the sky. That won't happen today. But it's all coming. I can feel it.
