A quiet morning. The dog did not have an accident on the rug. No pipes came close to freezing. The electricity works perfectly, and the wood in the wood stove is dry enough to burn. The washing machine, though aged, is grumbling more or less adequately. No one sent me a rejection letter, nor does the car does possess a single flat tire. I am rereading Pale Fire, a repellent book I desperately admire. I do not have to drive two hundred miles in a snowstorm, grade any papers, dose a mean goat with vegetable oil, or talk to anyone at the phone company. I have plenty of fresh lettuce, some farmstead cheese, and a bottle of mead. I am not fretting about typos in my new anthology. My son spent the night at a friend's house. The old Mission, Impossible is an amusing show to watch while sitting under a couch blanket drinking Scotch with the man I love. Next time the sourdough bread will turn out better. I have a warm white coat with a furry hood. Two crows are perched at the zenith of a tamarack. I know that the word zenith is inappropriate in this context, but I have decided to use it anyway. Another bag of French roast lurks in the freezer. And now I am going to go downstairs and peel a tangerine.