This is the sign that greets the horde of sparrows in the mornings: a frozen water dish. They have to wait for me to pour a kettle of hot water to melt it. I hung out the first block of suet on Thanksgiving Day. But it’s not winter yet.
Everything has stopped growing, even the weeds. The raspberries are done. There’s been a bit of frost. Even snow. But I still don’t call it winter.
Winter is when it’s too cold up in Canada where the juncos are, and they come down here. Take your time, little guys, I’m in no hurry for winter.
Writing Every Day 