It is the last day of the year. In time, I am forty-eight years old. In accomplishment, I have lived with the same man since I was twenty-one, have somehow managed to raise a son to adulthood, another to callow-youthhood, and within the past decade have written six books and part of a seventh, along with myriad uncollected bits and pieces of essays and poems. In space, I am a denizen of le grand bois du nord. Crows fly overhead. The firs creak and sway in the cold morning air. In the mirror, I am blue-eyed. In my dream, I lie in the berth of a rocking train, swiftly pulling me into the horizon. In song, he done me wrong. In truth, no and yes and I also and what difference does it make? Happy new year to all of you.