Now the wind is blowing hard; rain is dripping off the icicles; and when I was clearing out gates this morning, the dense wet snow clumped up like paste on my shovel. But the breeze smells damp and fresh, more like a March wind than a January one, and flocks of goldfinches are squeaking among the tree limbs. The low sky is colored a kind of pure grey, like the glaze on a plate. There is no horizon, only the sea-gale roaring in the trees and a crow or two buffeting and blustering against its steady grip. My house is very small in this wild wood, yet also brave and adventurous, gripping its foundation, holding on to its hat, puffing its woodsmoke into the breeze. It is like Baba Yaga's house, with its chicken legs tucked up beneath its feathers. It could fly if it wanted to.