Quite the weekend. A writing retreat at the home of my good friend and fellow writer (and poet) Ruby Wilson. Her husband Jim being away, her home out in the country, maybe 20 minutes from my own, become our little retreat, complete with a big pot of stew, lovely views of the prairie, a four-mile walk around a country block, late nights and long hours of quiet work and sharing.
Sunday morning I got up to a fresh dusting of snow. This was the scene when I stepped out the back door. I wish you could hear the gentle creaking of the little windmill, the dripping of melting snow from the trees, the distant squawking of birds, the huffing of the dog in the yard....
Somehow the stillness of this scene, with the ceaseless motion of the windmill inspired by breeze, feels like a metaphor for the creative work we were doing in the warmth of the house.