It snowed again last night, another rather half-hearted attempt, hardly enough for a size nine-and-a-half to leave a print.
Shortly after refilling the heated birdbath with water, a female bluebird came to drink. Ahhhh! (Special note: the bluebird's snowy footprint was much smaller than the water boy's.)
As before, I turn to Thoreau’s journals. This entry dated March 12, 1853.
“Last night it snowed, a sleety snow again, and now the ground is whitened with it, and where are gone the bluebirds whose warble was wafted to me so lately like a blue wavelet through the air.”