Not quite totally awake, I stepped outside behind the house to feed the birds (that waited farther out in the snow-covered field, hanging precariously from tall, dead, weed stalks, watching me). I pulled the door partially closed, because the cold air didn’t need to get inside, but a distinct “snick” sound occurred, since I didn’t let go of the door knob in time.
I froze, holding my dustpan of seed, then gently wiggled the door knob, while my mind realized that it and its body were locked outside, in the cold, wearing coat and boots, yes, but also in ‘jammie pants and wake-up hair, and the Husband had just stepped into the shower.
Lungs gently took in air and released it before I continued with the morning ritual of seeding the sparrows and cardinals.
Boots trudged me back to the door, fingers wiggled the knob just in case, then drawing my hood over my wake-up hair, I carefully made my way around the house to the front porch, stomped around de-booting snow, rang the bell and banged on the door (knowing the Husband couldn’t hear, yet).
Turning around, a breathtaking, foggy, wintery, gray morning cleared the sleepy fog in my brain, as I gazed on bare trees paintbrush-dabbed and fairy-silhouetted against the white sky; vehicles sloshing loudly through the road’s slush; and heard crows energetically singing a variety of clear caws, chortles, and chuckles from somewhere across the street.
A few minutes later, the Husband saw me through the window, and hollered, “What on earth?” and I was rescued from an incredible wake up call.