I live. It's cold.

It's running cold for the Willamette Valley as the house says 60° at midnight. Winter here isn't bathed in white and fluff. Foggy mist that freezes whatever it kisses, grass, limbs, and the dead flower pot on the porch, will all be covered in the frozen misted frost by morn.

Today was full a football as the post-season plays out eliminating and raising teams right and left. I was privileged, enthralled really, to watch three glorious games of worthy contenders vie for Victor. It was fun and sparkly and sometimes sad when the hits were too hard and violent and the fallen would fail to rise within the preordained, non-injured time.

The ball flew, was grappled, kicked, booted, punched but mostly fondled and held close.

That pretty much was my day.

As it oft is every year at post-season playtime.

It's okay. The aloneness was lessened. My burdens a bit lighter at moments.

A few times I articulated audible joy and awe at seemingly impossible plays. It always surprises me when I get an unexpected emotion that makes a verbal sound.

I had enough good food. I am grateful.

My house kept me warm. All is well.