It has been cold here today—a measly 4˚F when I got up at 5:30 a.m., a balmy 16˚F now in mid-afternoon. Certainly the coldest day we've had so far, though not a cold predicted to linger. According to the forecasts, it will warm up a dozen degrees tomorrow, and make it almost to 50˚F by Monday, remaining in the 40s˚F throughout the rest of the week.
We also got a bit of snow yesterday, plus an additional dusting this morning. Again, less than an inch total, which won't, of course, last beyond tomorrow. We've had three snows so far this winter, none of them deep enough to cover the grass completely. No need yet to break out the salt and shovels.
I've spent most of the day at my desk. There was work to get out, and a backup hard drive that decided to go on the blink yesterday and which I've been fiddling with intermittently since. With computers, their hardware and software, it's always something. Considering how big a part they play in my life—personal and professional—I'm reaching the point where I no longer think of them as mere machines, but sort of android-like members of the family, chip-equipped children who never manage to stay out of trouble for long.
At one point earlier, when I was digging through various files and sub-directories, well out of my depths of technical competency, I looked up and saw a Cooper's hawk sitting on a nearby limb. It's piercing yellow eyes were staring directly my way—the bird probably trying to figure out if that big indistinct blob on the other side of the window was something good to eat. If I were a mouse or chickadee, I'd have gone into cardiac arrest. Instead, I sat still and when the hawk looked the other way, plucked my camera from the desktop and made the above image.
The hawk kept looking around, watching, and I kept watching the hawk. Nothing moved outside, neither bird nor squirrel; everyone knew Doctor Death was in attendance.
I admit that in a moment of fantasy, I thought about tossing the Cooper's my recalcitrant backup drive.