It is suddenly mousing season. JJ sits in his highchair in a shaft of sunlight, a bowl of quinoa, poached eggs, slow roasted garden tomatoes and baby potatoes before him. The tail of a perfectly caramelized carrot dangles from his cheshire grin as he watches me, writing about him. As if on cue, a neighborhood cat runs across the backyard with a mouse in it's maw. JJ tells me there are ants in his lunch, though I know he is mistaken. We laugh at his new joke.
Early this morning I swung into the saddle to ride to work through a long, low fog. I couldn't help but slow to a stop on the pedestrian bridge over the wide, chugging Assiniboine River to contemplate the sudden changes all around. Cold hands grip handle bars and it is the perfect, perfect time of year to cycle in a wool jersey and tight layers early in the morning. Layers long peeled off for the ride home at dinner time. BBQ smells linger in the air along the river.
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