"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is damp, drizzly November in my soul;..."

I thought I would write about the signs of spring, the juvenile flame breasted robins, and the wattle bushes in bloom, because as I went walking in the bright light that actually had warmth, I was convinced that spring had started.
Then the next day there was snow, very low on the mountain.
I was so cold I slept in the front room near the fire. I had gone out to coach a session for The South Island Sirens, the league that split from the first Hobart league, so I got home late. I had banked the fire, and I feel proud each time I achieve this feat. I still have trouble though, getting the heat of the fire box to keep going through five a.m. when a cold chill creeps in, and seems to wake me almost each night.
The week turned out to be all about the return (or entrance some would argue) of winter. Days that begin with subtle light, that is then absorbed by the gray waters of the bay. When I look out all the colors are dictated by the sea and the sky. The only brilliance comes from a contrast of gray against foliage.
If this weather holds though, Zok will be happy-he will run the fire day and night unconcerned and cavalier about how much wood he burns.