Smoke billows down the roof and falls past the picture window, rolling across the yard into the woods where it hangs like a misty curtain in the bare trees. The brilliant morning sun, low over the horizon, shines straight through to the far side of the house.

Logs sizzle and pop inside the woodstove, water burbles on top; these sounds punctuate the inertia of a cold winter day. We read, and read, and read, dozing in the sunbeams like a pair of cats, only stirring to put another log on the fire or refill our coffee cups.

A steady stream of birds breaks the monotony. Juncos, titmice, chickadees and sparrows visit the seed feeder. On the suet downy and red-bellied woodpeckers vie for space with nuthatches and greenish-yellow pine warblers. A young hawk searches the yard for an unsuspecting mouse or small bird to eat for breakfast. He flies from branch to branch, puffing out his creamy breast feathers to catch the sun's warmth.

As the day wears on, itching for some activity, we check the thermometer and when we see it's 38 we shout, "Heat Wave!" and bundle into coats, boots, hats, gloves and scarves and escape the house. We wander through the woods, down to the creek to see what new ice shapes have formed on the banks and marvel at the muddy crystalline spires pushed up into the air. Check the beaver dam for the latest additions of sticks and branches. Look for critter tracks in the mud. The creek flows now, clear and bright, the low sun lighting the multi-colored stones scattered across the stream bed, gold, red and blackish-blue.

At the pond a kingfisher cackles as it circles the edges, perching on a branch above the water, claiming turf. A great blue heron squawks and flies up to land in a high tree, scolding us for disturbing his hunting. Otter scat, layered with fish scales, is piled along the dam. We'd love to see the slippery creature swim up from the depths, if only for a minute, but that would be rare.

Back home with rosy cheeks, we peel off layers, brew a cup of tea, and put a pot of something -- beans, soup, polenta -- on the woodstove to simmer along till suppertime. Seed catalogs pile up on the table. I take a peek, but I'm not ready, still reveling in the winter break from outdoor chores. The garden is finished for now, everything out there limp from freezing and thawing. When it finally warms again, all will go to the compost pile except perhaps some carrots, still safe underground.

I turn to my stack of books and magazines. "What shall I read next?" I think, as I slip back into my soft nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, waiting for supper and relishing a few more hours of slow.