The rains have started. Drops are pecking at the windows, rattling on the vent covers. It will be cold today, and windy--a high of 37, with wet snowflakes swirling--and I am looking forward to a cozy inside day, with bread baking and a roast chicken, and an evening fire in the wood stove . . . and, please, no electrical emergencies.

I feel a little dull this morning. I keep typing sentences into this letter and then erasing them, because they seem too boring to share. "Friday is trash day" . . . "It's Paul's last week at work" . . . "The editing goes on and on" . . . "Garden needs water" . . . "I'm reading a book" . . . You've heard it all before and are surely sick to death of it.

My only news involves cardinal romance: a male and a female hopping around the backyard flower beds and stopping now and again to feed each other.

There are no cardinals here.

Only a woman in a red dress.

          [from Henry Carlile, "The Cardinal"]