There are more than a few dozen mornings in the still of winter when I am grateful it to be the early riser, the maker of coffee, the stoker of the wood burning stove.
I schlep around the kitchen in socks and watch as BC sleepily slips into thick boots and an old coat. The slider doors exhale as he is careful to open them just enough to get through: the hens are waiting for him.
I feed and water the dogs. And the cats. I start laundry in the frozen mudroom. I cook a hot breakfast and pack his lunch. He appears cold, sometimes wet or muddy or snowy but he is always smiling.
There is something to be said for being the one who starts the day among a flock of birds.
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