Sunday morning I got up to a fresh dusting of snow. I stepped out the back door to the gentle creaking of a little windmill, the dripping of melting snow from the trees, the distant squawking of birds, the huffing of the dog in the yard….
Somehow the stillness of the scene, with the ceaseless motion of the windmill inspired by breeze, felt like a metaphor for the creative work we were doing in the warmth of the house.
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