Just now, sitting on the back stoop, arms resting on my knees, dog snug against my leg, on a bright day that is now waning into late afternoon.
It's warm compared to yesterday, but anything's warm compared to that: -13C (8.6F). I had refused to turn up the thermostat (because it's October, damnit) and so spent the day shivering. We hooked up the electric blanket and went to bed at 9 o'clock, blocks of ice shaped like feet bumping into each other, yelps to "get over on your own side" in a bed the size of a football field. I don't like complaining about the cold because local folks can hardly wait to see how "the new people from Ontario" will cope with north Alberta's aptly named Cold Lake. We know cold, though. Both of us are hardy crops. The thing is, we're used to a woodstove, where you ignite a few sticks of maple and bake yourself down to your summer underwear faster than it takes to make porridge. The furnace here heats the air, not the house, and, the minute it shuts off, cold gels all feeling left in those icicles we once called toes.
The fighter jets drone overhead. Sleek bees with needlepoint noses. Incessantly practising to save the world.
Inside, I hear my coffee's ready.