It's nice and chilly in the mornings here. I relish those last few moments in bed, under the lofty down comforter, snuggling with Fitzgerald and Hornsby, and Mr. Orange if he isn't busy chowing down on kitty kibble. And then the alarm becomes too arresting to ignore, and I have to get up, slip on my fuzzy suede slippers and feed the chickens.
But most days I'd rather get up and feed the chickens and be met with a nice, quiet layer of snow. Something in the landscape that tells you "Hey! Yoo hoo! It's winter!" Something that gives you a darn good reason to drink up all the coffee.
If only Dallas had more than two seasons: Hot and less hot.