The wind hurries through the trees, bustling among the brown leaves, a sound of winter come too soon. The temperature drops and the mercury in the glass chases it - I look out and reconsider. Cows can move another day, will be happy to wait. The steel of broken equipment is cold enough to bite bare hands, that too is put off to another day.
Outside, kittens are found in small, warm, furry piles and Rex the beagle hides away from better insulated rabbits in Rosie's dog house. Even Rosie, the stupendously insulated, shivers though she refuses to acknowledge any shelter. We are inside our tiny house, Beth and I, snug and warm in frigid come too soon. Blankets on couch and chairs comfort us, lights glow warmly and hot water for tea steams in the kettle, but it is early November and this cold belongs to mid January. Perhaps January has misplaced it's weather. Someone should return it - with compliments.
The tiny house is cozy and safe, but again, it is too soon. Our sanctuary is too small to hide in for two extra months of cruel winter. We love our small space, we love each other, but there is only so much time two humans can spend in close proximity. Beth practicing the same song over and over on the guitar and me making the same silly word jokes could lead to murderous intent. To be trapped in that loving small space would not be good, no it would not.
And so we leave, finding chores to do, places to go despite the cold. The wind becomes our shivery cohort, muttering ceaselessly in our ears. In time, this rime filled faction becomes welcome, but only to chivvy us along from task to task. And in the end it encourages us home, making us glad of a respite from it's grumbling and moaning.
The tiny house welcomes us in, glowing from the windows, warm from the electric heater chuffing happily in place (the wood stove's last section of flu hasn't yet arrived). It lacks running water and any semblance of privacy, but we like it and returning to it after a cold day of work, can enjoy each other once more.