I awoke at 6:00am. I fired up the woodstove. After meditation and floor exercises, I made breakfast. After breakfast, I sat in my rocker next to the woodstove reading a short story in The New Yorker about a man whose wife moved him and his family, without his prior agreement, to a new apartment in a seedy section of town before he could finish listening to the daily evening newscasts of violence, tragedy, political disarray and human suffering to which he was addicted. I fired a few snap caps in my Ruger 77/44 carbine while peering through its peep site at targets of opportunity near the house. A couple of vehicles rolled by, probably pseudo-hunters scouting from the warmth of their trucks' cabs because it's rifle season for deer with no snow on the ground.
Now, I'm headed out to sharpen a saw chain and tree spade blade in preparation of moving a mature crabapple to a more convenient location for its owner.