Well, the forecast changed radically since I last talked to you. That rain event became a snow event, and we are forecast to get 9 to 14 inches of heavy paste.

It's been snowing for most of the night and will keep it up all day. I am glad I don't have to go anywhere and sorry that Tom does. I do have plenty of work, however: the giant new editing project and various smaller side-things to catch up on. Exercise class; snow shoveling; chicken and vegetable curry for dinner. That's the Monday plan.

I've been steadily reading The Small House at Allington, and I'm caught up with the Southwell poems I've been getting ready to discuss with Teresa. I haven't done any work on my own pieces for a few days, but that's okay. My stack of new poems is so huge right now. It's daunting to imagine sorting through them for a next collection. I don't feel ready to begin, more like I ought to begin, which is the wrong attitude to take. So I'm just letting them pile up, under the snowfall. At spring thaw, they'll reappear, greenish and soggy, and I'll trip over them in the driveway.

Yesterday morning T and I went for a long walk (4 miles? 5 miles?), from our house down to Back Cove and then all the way around the cove. This estuarial nook is tucked into the middle of the city, like a gorgeous tidal lake, and walking around it feels like existing in multiple worlds at once--at my left, the city, with its houses and grocery stores and highways and construction sites; at my right, a broad calm expanse of water, marsh grass, mud, and sea fowl. The winter can be a good time to glimpse coastal birds that, in the summer, breed further north or inland. This time we were lucky enough to see many buffleheads . . . small, lively, big-headed seabirds, which are even cuter than puffins, in my opinion. So that was a treat, and the walk was long and cold and vigorous, yet getting to the cove from our house is an easy half-mile jaunt. I still cannot get over how close I live to the sea.