FIRST SNOW • by Albert E. Schindler

The radio alarm woke me to the quiet notes of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Air on the G String.

Six a.m. Still dark outside.

Oh!…  the luxury of the morning’s first stretch while still wrapped in warm, flannel sheets. Just a few more minutes–please!

Although it had snowed during the night, the sky was now clear. The near-full moon, hurrying westward, away from the already faint glimpse of approaching dawn, cast a silvery magic across my farm.

Everything sparkled.

From my bedroom window view, the fresh dusting of snow atop the rows of round hay bales that still needed hauling in from the field looked like frosted “Mini Wheats”, ready to be scooped up and placed in my breakfast bowl.

The milk cows, huddled against the barbed wire gate, milled restlessly, anxious to be freed from their pasture and let into a warm barn. The smell of coffee, drifting in from the kitchen–

“Better get the tractor out and plough a clearing to the highway.” My wife was an early riser. “Kids will need a ride to the school bus this morning.”

Reluctantly, I crawled out of bed. Needed to go to the bathroom, anyway.

Albert E. Schindler writes out of Cardston, Alberta. This is his first publication with Every Day Fiction.

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