It was 40 degrees this morning in St. Paul. For the first time this fall I could see my breath while walking Greta. Of course, I was drinking coffee. But I'm pretty sure I could have seen my breath anyway. Greta, with her Weimaraner sensibilities, knows that anything of interest on our morning walk is at ground level. Paper. Garbage. Wrappers. Sticks. Even the occasional rabbit or squirrel. So her breath could be seen as a series of little pools of steam on the ground as she ran.
Each year I enjoy this first seeing of my breath. As I enjoy the mist rising from the Cranberry Lake when the air temperature gets lower than the water temperature. The ritual of change. Seasons changing. In March when it should be turning toward spring but isn't I'll hate to see my breath. Then I'll want to see a crocus, I suppose. But this morning it was great.