Twelfth

It's cold.

The sky was deep and blue...but that wind. I smacked my thumb with a hammer while hanging a star on the chimney. The cold up there made my nose run. I was glad to put the ladder away, afterward. Fine dustings of snow crusted the grass. There were bits of ice where puddles had been.

The sunset was sweet. Vivid and unstinting. There were pinks and oranges, pale greens and purple-blues. It is dark now, though, and gusts of wind make the house creak. I can hear windchimes dinging, tossed by big air. The metal of the chimes would probably turn your fingers numb, if you were to hold those silvery tubes for very long.

My thumb is still thumping, like a cartoon.

It is Sunday, drifting toward Monday. A holiday weekend gone by...almost. Thanksgiving was nice. Warm and chatty. The rest of the extended weekend's hours were fairly empty, though. That's kind of sad.

And so am I.

Tired, too.

But it is December, now -- and I've always had an affinity for twelve. I think I will pour myself a tall cold glass of water and watch The Fellowship of the Ring again.

Hello, December...