This is the blog equivalent of crickets in my head.

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Somehow as I typed that I got the mental image of tiny little crickets, ankle-deep in lovely flaky snow, wearing pretty little red woolen coats.

And mittens.  Must.  Have.  Mittens.

And tiny little scarves that wind themselves several times around their tiny little throats.

And they make delightful little snowballs in the perfect white snow that lies beneath their feet.

And then ooh and aah as they see the light of the dinnerplate moon bounce off the perfect white stillness of the frozen surfaces.

And they listen with their tiny legs as the sounds the snow makes –the soft sucking as it melts, the nitid dripping as it turns to water– surround their playtime.

And as they rub their tiny mittens –and possibly their antennae– for warmth, a Mother Cricket would step out in a lovely pinafore and earmuffs and  a shawl, carrying a tray of hot cocoa to warm up the bellies of her sweet baby crickets, whose tiny breaths swirl in the icy air.

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But then I realize: whatever crickets didn’t die a gruesome death with the first frost or are hiding in some egg lair and waiting for summer, are probably trying to mete out their half a chirp or so, so as to drive the point home that it’s nice and chilly and that crickets are summer insects.
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I didn’t mean for that to be suddenly brutal.  I think I need sleep though.

Thank you to all of you who, by comment or by other communication, inquired as to my/our well-being.  Everyone is okay over here!  Just a little shaken up, but that is a story for another day.

Happy Thursday-to-be, everyone!