It’s snowing here.

I canceled my plans to go see a movie–being of Minnesotan extraction, I can drive in anything short of glaze ice, but I fear the other drivers, who once shut down the entire city for fear of a single snowflake sighted somewhere over Cary–and planted myself on the couch. Snow falling outside, a quesadilla comfortably inside me, two affectionate cats, hot cider, a glass of white wine starting to sound like a lovely idea, an episode of Mythbusters tivoed, the latest Emma Bull novel at my elbow, enough video games to last out a siege…yes, life was glorious, and I didn’t have to go anywhere, and…

…I glanced outside.

The birdfeeder was empty. A lone goldfinch sat on it, pecking disconsolately at the opening, hoping against hope for a stray seed.

What? No! Sad birds in snow?!

Not on my watch!

I threw on my coat, sighed, and went out to the grocery store. As one might expect, it was full of people frantically buying out the selection of bread, eggs, and milk (a friend of mine has a theory that this is because of a widespread belief that the Storm Gods can be appeased only by offerings of French toast.) I acquired my birdseed and some popcorn, and got in line behind a gentleman determined to pay his bill at the self checkout in cash, using crumpled one-dollar bills. I stifled another sigh.

It’s for the birds, man.

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