Fluffy little snow flakes are burrowing into the nooks and crannies of the bare trees.
Tiny bubbles are gathering on the rim of my mug, discussing Emerson and heroes.
The snow plow has been up and down the road at least four times.
I’m still thinking about the ending of this fascinating book.
Someone has been singing Happy Birthday to his sister all day, getting ready for her special day.
And I’m here with my favorite little creatures and quite certain that Downton Abbey episodes are far too short and spread out for the good of mankind. Is it too much to ask that I just want Matthew and Mary to stop being so stubborn and confess their love for each other? That it all.
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