Two mourning doves swing on an empty feeder as my sentence wanders on and on. Somewhere a dog barks, but no one listens. Tires whistle through slush, coffee cools in the glass pot, and nightmares retreat into their damp caverns. From his snowy bough, a superannuated squirrel, bony and moth-eaten, eyes the doves on the feeder. Hunger glitters. Meanwhile, a middle-aged book splays on the table. Loneliness tots up its accounts.