A dim grey morning. It rained last night and, now, in the circle of yard between the house and the sheds, I can see that much of the sodden snow has melted away into grassy mud. Beneath the big apple tree, the tips of daffodils spear through wet leaf litter. A vague green shimmers in the dead grass. But snow still blankets the gardens, the raspberry patch; it still fills the ridges and rills of the forest.
I am drinking black coffee in a yellow and white kitchen. The empty counters shine. The plates smile on their shelves.
Snowmelt drips from the eaves; I hear the wood stove click, the dog sigh. Yesterday I bought plane tickets for Los Angeles, but right now it is hard to imagine that Los Angeles exists.