Hillmomba dipped below freezing last night. The front field was covered with frost when I twisted open the mini blinds at the front window. About half of it had melted by the time The Pony and I left to do our shopping at 9:00 a.m.
As T-Hoe cruised down the gravel road, we passed the smattering of white feathers which were the only remains of a dear departed chicken dispatched by the Pumpus Hounds who stream from the house across the road when we are away from the Mansion. I will call them the Pumpus Hounds, because they are beggin' to be pumped full of paintballs every time they are seen stalking our fine feathered friends. Let the record show that our chickens are the odd ducks who never try to cross the road. The hounds come and get them.
Further down the road, white as well, but vertical rather than horizontal like the feathers, was a fine display of hoarfrost. I always think it's a bunch of trashy Devil's Playground bags blown up against the weeds, until the sparkles give it away. So beautiful to have such a common name.
"Hey! Pony. Look!"
"Say its name!"
"I know it is called hoarfrost. Not W H O R E frost. H O A R frost."
"Well. You could have simply spelled the correct name. You didn't have to spell the OTHER name."
"I wonder why some of them are so wide, and others are just slim strands."
"Ick. I was going to ask you to get out and break off a twig and let me touch it. Now...I don't think so. You kind of ruined that plan. I don't want to touch spiderwebs."
That Pony. He's really getting to be a handful.