Pouring rain, pouring rain, and I, thankfully, am still at home, not slogging through ice and mud in the northcountry dark.

But it was an odd day, yesterday: I expected to be on the road, and instead I spent hours reading by the fire while rain and sleet rattled down. 

Today should be different, as the rain is supposed to transform into 50 degrees and full sun, a gardener's delight. No firesides and couch blankets required.

I've been immersed in Wendell Berry's fiction, and at some point I will write down what I'm noticing about his work. Suffice it to say: his stories are what I expected, and what I did not expect. Which is why I remain immersed.

In two days, Tom leaves for his residency. Things will sure be different around here without him.