It's cold; although normally quickly over the second 'half' of winter is harsher than the first.
But on a happy note, the jasmine bush in the far western corner of the garden always flowers early in August; it's pungent scent has been my first sign of spring since a child.
I'm still In bed having my quiet time; I'm about to write my morning pages (as inspired by Julia Cameron in The Artists Way about a decade ago), and trying to sip on a bowl of steaming mint and green tea.
My old, faded-pink single electric blanket is on 2, while the sun is in my face and backlighting Mika.
This morning the sun appeared over the trees at the far edge of the park across from my home at exactly 7h12; yip the nights are getting shorter.
Frost, like icing on a carrot cake, is lying thick and white on the yellow, dead lawn.
As I stare at this scene while scratching my stubble, contentment seeps through my being...and it's Friday.