Damp-cold

It's cold. The sun is shining outside, but the humid Louisiana air chills my fingers and neck. Damp-cold, like a curse word.

The trees on the far bank of my river shiver their reflection in the brown water as it trembles along. The silver-dollar sized leaves of the pear tree chatter to the ground from the slow breath of the North wind.

My old terrier licks her arthritic paws. Blue eyes beseeching, I give her a doggy ibuprofen. It's time to scavenge the closet for the space heater before we both turn into ice cubes.