Self-prophecy

The fiesty black and white little fellows felt warm in her arms.

She realises with a start that she'd missed them.

They sit in their little boxes, diligently (somewhat. As best as they can, so she likes to think...) and perfunctory carrying out their duties while she waits. And ponders.

The road ahead. So many forks. Which one's best? All seem misty, unclear, like she's looking through lens that have fogged up with transition from cold to warm.

Time to get out of comfort zone and do something about it. This year, she decides, will be a good one. Now, if only that theory holds true...