*One of the first memories I have of my father is him reading to me before bedtime. I would watch his lips form the words of "Goldilocks" especially liking the way they moved when he said "Papa Bear." Listening to him read began my life long enjoyment of books. Awakening at night from bad dreams, I would toddle to his lap as he sat in his easy chair and cuddle back to sleep while he silently read his big, heavy grown-up books.
*We take our coffees up to the ridge. On our left is the reservoir, now slowly shrinking to its wintertime size. Dotted with white caps I marvel at its colors--not just a uniform blue but all the shadings of blue and some green. And so cold, cold, cold it looks. On our right is the town. The aspens and cottonwoods are just beginning to add yellows to the green quilt of trees (thrashed by the wind) and streets. I used to be able to find our house just there by the red tiled roofs but it's not ours anymore. Ahead of us is smoke and we follow roads searching for its origins until I realized it may not be near a road (not many roads here). The smoke trails for miles in the fierce winds.
*I wake to snow in the high country.