I've been reading yet another Margaret Drabble novel (The Waterfall) and wandering through various sections of the Aeneid. I've been drinking black coffee and emptying the recycling bin. I've been editing a book about 19th-century children's magazines and choosing a Robert Frost poem to be the centerpiece for this summer's conference. I've been receiving rejection letters as well as an invitation to judge a poetry contest. I've been making corn chowder and apple-raspberry crisp. I've been staring out the window into a view of slush and mud. I've been writing an essay. I've been feeling the first burgeonings of a sad unwritten poem. I've been running in circles around my living room, trying to keep my muscles limber and my endorphins smiling. I've been playing cribbage and listening to the Basement Tapes. I've been watching the winter hawks swing low over the highways, then sweep up and vanish into the wind.