February slid in on ice skates like an awkward adolescent. Ice crystals coat the walkways, the tree limbs, and my cheeks as I walk along the sidewalks cracked by magnolia roots. Bundled in hat, gloves, muffler, and ski jacket, the edges of the polar vortex turns my nose shiny pink.
Kentucky’s winter blue skies are hidden by gray clouds racing from Colorado to Maryland. I am thankful of our cheery gas fireplace where I cuddle with a book and cup of tea. The grand dogs lounge by the Aga stove downstairs, content to let their frozen paws warm with the constant heat.
Our cardinal family found the new bird feeder. Flashes of red come and go like autumn leaves carried by the wind. Perching in the rangy Chestnut tree by our deck, a juvenile bird waits as his vibrantly hued father picks through the seeds. His dull-colored mother is by the fence. The females are last in line for the offering my husband has spread on the patio table and scattered in the clear plastic feeder attached to our window.
February can’t make up its mind if winter is fleeing toward spring or extending icy fingers into March. I think the tropics are calling me.