Our walks are short and cold, punctuated by as many little stops to warm our noses as we can find. Night comes early. It has been a long and pleasant autumn. As it closes, we turn indoors. We make messes and clean them. We make food and eat it. We draw. We write. We read.
I feel like myself in winter, and I like these cold months, though I might prefer that there were only three of them, and no one had to drive on snowy roads.