Inside, safe with coffee, I eye snow ranging between raging and swirling.

Everything is white, a cover-up to hide yesterday’s progress of melting and drying roads. It looks cold, and cold is permeating my protective window panes.

I made an espresso sized cuppa using French Roast. The staunch flavor pleases me. It’s great not needing to deal with all that extra water that goes into a larger cup. The coffee fuels thinking about the storm’s extent. The web helps track its size, what has passed and what is expected. I need something like that for the rest of my life.

The cats, of course, drift between blissful slumber and energetic bonkers. That’s when older cats are preferred; they recognize bad weather and are happier to watch through a window than the young beasts. Quinn is the rule’s exception; he enjoys the cold. We think he employs an active imagination, going out and pretending he’s Siberian. His whole demeanor reeks of of it. But this weather play has a heavy element of wind; Quinn says, “Nyet,” to wind.

Tucker indulges in several mad dashes, practicing his football jukes. Taking pity on the kitties, I visit with each and play with them. The toy of choice is the white feathers on the yellow string on the pink stick. All love this. Meep captures it, picks it up in his mouth and attempts to carry it away, tail up. His trophy pleases him. Boo, the oldest, becomes most engaged. He manages to free three more feathers. Only one feather remains on the toy. Time for a new one.

Snow surrenders to sunshine, which yields to rain. No matter; the temp has scaled thirty-eight degrees. The wind refuses to abandon its role so the cats stay in but the sun is back.

Time to move, get ready to go out and write like crazy. Breakfast, first.

It’s a good morning for pancakes.