It's seven o'clock on Saturday morning, and I've been catching shadows in the still-dark sky for an hour.
In fifteen minutes I will sneak back into bed and kiss Dave's shoulder awake and be smothered by morning cuddles.
Then we will shower, and dress, run around one last time looking for my ski gloves and fleecy hat and then we will be off to pick up the crew and head up to the warm wooden farmhouse in Apsley where Myke's mom will let us host the wedding in April.
I've been seeing snow and log fires reflected in the shadows all morning, I've drowned out my still-pounding heart with visions of wet socks and pants soaked to the knees.
My spirit is roaring to go sink my hands into snow and then warm my fingertips with hugs and coacoa and spurious giggling.
It's been a long, difficult autumn, triumph and tribulation heavy, and today we get to run away to the woods and snow.
I can't wait.
And it's almost seven-fifteen.
There are kisses to be dropped on warm shoulders.