Yesterday's snow was by far the prettiest of the season--the sort that clings to every branch and twig and sparkles like crystal in the watery sunlight. I wouldn't have chosen to shovel the driveway at 6:30 in the morning, but the fast-moving clouds, the daybreak glitter, were a delight, as was the drive across town to the hospital, threading my way under laden tree branches as elegant as lace.

It's a week filled with appointments. Yesterday I got appointment 1 is out of the way, and today's schedule features appointment 2: oil change for the car. Once again, I'll be hustling out of the house early: this time for an easy drive around the corner to the garage, and a trudge home through the frosty neighborhood. Then class planning and editing, then picking up the newly oiled car and turning my thoughts to dinner, whatever it may be. Last night I made Glamorgan sausages, which are not actually sausages but sautéed patties of leeks, cheddar, and breadcrumbs. Tonight maybe we'll have Bolognese sauce, if I get it started in time.

I've started rereading Virginia Woolf's Between the Acts. I've been talking to my friend Betsy about an old essay I wrote, a piece about The Autobiography of Malcolm X--how dangerous it felt to address an icon's misogyny. I am tweaking revisions; also thinking about revision activities for my next Monson class; also plotting some writing prompts; also beginning to imagine a team-teaching day with my friend Gretchen--how will we combine poetry with dance and improvisational theater? . . . I am having some thoughts that seem to center around the notion of frame. My brain is both vague and bubbly, its usual state when I'm beginning to imagine new teaching situations.

Meanwhile, ice is falling from the trees, rattling against roof and windows, tapping and clattering, a thousand shards of glass.