birches and blustery flecks of snow

I awoke this morning bright and early, indirectly from the sunlight- I suppose the light woke the flies and the flies woke me, buzzing against the window pane... don't they know if they really did manage to free themselves, their insides would freeze instantly upon contact with the bitter air?

As I sat with my oatmeal and pecans, the light was hitting the surrounding birches, turning them golden and nearly florescent orange-or wait is that the Rungus people? Marching up to the house from their own, covered in florescent orange vests and hats to ward off the poacher's stray bullets. Up they come already at 7:30 to start another full day, for idle sitting is surely the worst thing about being in Maine- the thing to drive them home. They are so fun to work with... finding everything funny and curious about everything. Sovoli has been building traps out of native forest materials- brilliant mechanics- he is astounded by the paucity of pliable wood in these forests- nothing to latch sticks together with. The dog starting chewing on one, and he cracked up like it was the funniest thing he ever seen, and it's like this all day. They just laugh and laugh, with permanent creases around their lips and eyes, casting that ceaseless twinkling glow unknown to most Americans.
George's cynicism has worn off on me. He informed me yesterday that he has "resigned from the American Culture Club..." as if I didn't pick up on that myself. But I think I and my ideas provide entertainment for them, how lonley it must get up in these parts. We hit a deer on the drive up- a common occurence based on the nonchalant reaction of everyone in the car, no harm done to us, but the poor thing probably got a good bruise, if not worse.