SEVEN BELOW ZERO at the Church O’ The Pines this morning. The congregation of hearty woodland souls seems unfazed. All the normal goodies are set out in Fellowship Hall, and our church members rub elbows and gossip, as is the case in all the churches I have known. The Bald Eagle was here last evening in the fading light, but has not made an appearance this morning. All the other ‘usual suspects’ are about, and in good spirits. The snow is a brilliant, sparkling white, the pines and balsams green, the sky a robin’s egg blue. There is enough breeze to make the wind chimes softly sing. The white road of the river calls, and a skiing or snowshoe outing may be in the works. I also have some artwork for a new book that needs finishing, and the old bentwood rocker softly calls. Decisions will have to be made. All here wish you a Good January Sabbath.