Picture this:
It’s snowing outside, the heavy, sticky snow that coats your bare maples and frosts your evergreens in sparkling beauty. The thermometer reads *cold* (Insert your own definition of cold.) You’re curled up in a chair beside the fireplace where a fire crackles and heats. A mug of hot cocoa stirred with a peppermint stick awaits on the end table. In your hands is a book.
What are you reading?
Me? I’ve just begun The Language of Sparrows by Rachel Phifer