Sentences with phrase «think crackling fires»

Think crackling fires, slow - cooked rustic stews and the crunch of morning frost under foot.

Not exact matches

When I think of fall and the cooler weather, my thought wander to good books, giant cups of tea, apple picking and crackling fires.

Ahhhh, sweaters (or jumpers) They make me think warm and happy thoughts — mulled wine, a crackling fire, falling snow and Christmas.

(I will admit, I thought I would start a fire or blow myself up when the pepper started crackling, but I survived!)

To get maximum cozy points, try and make this date a step above just another night at home — think warm socks, a crackling fire and a good bottle of red wine).

I THINK THE BEST TIME TO VISIT SABIE is all year round, because our Winter days are warm and sunny with chilly nights when we love to snuggle up by a crackling log fire.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

What I love about fall: My thoughts turn from gardening to snuggling up in front of a warm crackling fire, a good book and mug of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream... When it's still 80 degrees and it feels and smells like fall... The sound of the school bus ambling down our street on the first day of school stopping at the corner to pick the precious cargo of squealing kids... As I walk through our yard hearing the crunch of crackling leaves... Chunky winter sweaters - every September I buy a new one... Watching our resident squirrels scurrying around our yard gathering and burying their winter stash... Replacing summer flowers with purple and white cabbages.

Lesley thought of everything in here, including a crackling fire!

A well - stocked log box conjures up cosy thoughts of a warm, crackling fire.