It snowed overnight. Not a lot. Just what they call a dusting, a sprinkle. It was enough to colour the hills and fields white, and to cast an eerie orange glow on the bedroom ceiling from the street lamp, and to snuggle the morning in silence. But most of it had gone by the time I had got up, showered, and thrown some caffeine down my throat.
By the time my esquire had buckled me into my dog-walking armour, there was a wek sun glinting off the millpond.
The mud was still crisp, though the snow had melted from it. The snow always melts first on the mud, presumably because it is black and so the tiniest bit warmer. Anyway, there are three bands of snow – a black path of melted stuff, just starting to ooze, a white bit either side where the snow is relatively untouched except by rabbits, and, in between these is a strip of path where the snow still partly lies on grass and stone. This is how I know where to put my feet.
The black and white patterns on the ground are endlessly fascinating, and, by the time I get home, there is some warmth in the sun, just enough to set a little blue tit off on his chuckle-song of courtship. The blue tit song makes me smile. It’s like they say their name, then chuckle about it – “blue tit, he he he he he.” But, alas, his prospective girlfriends are still in bed, or doing the blue tit equivalent of dancing round their handbags and going with each other to the toilet. He must wait for warmer weather, I think. Still, full marks for effort.
By the time I get home there is some warmth in the sun. As Ted Hughes said, “The world is still working.”