THE CcccOLD CONTINUES—

As I slid a sweat shirt over my not-toasty enough flannel shirt this morning, I peeked through the closed drapes and watched the birds enjoy dawn’s arrival.

The thermometer is reading 11 degrees on the wrong side of zero out there while I have the human comfort of a heated nest with its own sunflower feeder—so to speak. We call it a kitchen.

They don’t seem to mind the frigid stuff.

They frolic to and fro, each about an ounce or so of hungry energy taking care of their breakfast business.

The only evidence they feel the brutal cold is that cardinal over there on the pine branch with its feathers fluffed more than double its girth—its version of a down-filled parka.

He’s probably their old fogy.