At Home on a Snowy Evening.

The Moon is setting now, a fattening Crescent, She appears glowing white and yellow through dark clouds that sent gusts of heavy snow, now ended, for several minutes tonight on my way home. It is Saturday night and silent, save for the popping sounds the wood stove makes when it is heating up, or cooling down, as it is now. I need to stoke the fire. I heated my dinner on there, in a pot with olive oil. Heated right up. Lamb sausage pasta with peppers and onions, and now on my second beer. On a snowy night by a warm fire with a cold beer and a full belly and nothing but the sound of the wind chimes and that stove popping I mentioned above, unless you are reading this upside down, in which case it is below. It is below and I am here at the end of this book but it’s not really the end, it’s just the beginning.

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