Well, I'm back at Alcott House, all ready to spend my weekend painting a bathroom door and reading drafts of essays. For the moment, however, I'm sitting in a darkened living room, listening to the clock tick on the mantle and a breeze clack at the loose siding. The cat is staring at squirrels. Tom is sleeping. The government is shut down. I've been fighting a headache for a few days, and I wish I were a little thinner. Thus the first weeks of 2018, with their pettiness and their politics, wind to a close.

But the days are lengthening. I haven't yet heard the chickadee's spring song, but soon, soon. In the woods, nesting owls are dive-bombing unwary cross-country skiiers. Icicles drip from eaves, and dogs roll on sodden patches of bare yard. The washers of kitchen floors growl at the wearers of work boots.

I wonder what spring will be like here. I wonder about my garlic, and those tulip bulbs I planted last fall. I wonder how I should lay out the new beds in the front garden. It is odd to know so little about my land.