The river is freezing over now, although I would never know. For I have been burried away in the back corner room of my little caravan. I like to peer outside my little cracked glass window. It's a beautiful scene out there in my tiny backyard. There's a creek you see. In the summer you hear it flowing. Now it's frozen, quiet, completely silent beneath the ice. And there's a weeping willow, small and dainty. I planted it this summer with the hopes it would grow. It did. Twice it's size in fact. There's two small wooden square gardens that are now empty and burried under the white. And there's thickets of willows and alders for as far as the eye can see. We have a smoke-house where a squirrel lives and an old sled where voles reside. Redpolls fly and sometimes hares visit. Once in a blue moon a fox wonders in. I haven't ventured out lately. My mind's been preoccuppied. But the scenery keeps me company as I think.
