i'd be friends with the sparrows

Reading: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell

The author has degrees in Cultural Anthropology, Social Anthropology, & Biological Anthropology from 3 excellent universities. She's studied linguistics, genetics, archaeology, anatomy, and geology. Fed up with academia, she quit to write fiction. In other words, she is either my hero or an older Caucasian me caught in a weird space-time continuum.

The temperature difference between Cincinnati and Juneau has lessened from a gap of 20 degrees to a mere 8. Winter equalizes everything. I walk outside and fail to immediately distinguish my Cranberry Canner with its rusted out holes; 8 inches of snow have blanketed everything indiscriminately, as long as it's staying still. The snowfalls here surprise me. They come softly and gently without warning or much ado, as if you blinked and suddenly the world as you know it is white and perfect and serene. I guess because in Cincinnati, it's obvious when the weather drops cold enough to snow. Signs precede, there's a build-up, radio and news stations start giving traffic warnings. Whereas here, precipitation of some sort is a given, and the surprise comes when the skies are clear and sunny.

are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. the very hairs of your head are all numbered. fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows. [Matthew 10:29]