It's five degrees in Wellington, Maine. The light is just beginning to break through the trees, and downstairs Steve is rattling the wood stove, starting the water to boil for coffee--the comforting sounds of a winter morning.

I got in last night close to eleven, after a winding familiar drive through snow-skimmed darkness. The theater in Dover-Foxcroft had been packed--a sold-out house for Sid Stock, a big happy crowd, such a touching scene. So many locals love Sid Stutzman so much. And the show itself was tight and strong, good musicians playing well and with pleasure. I had the happiness of hanging out with a couple of my very first students, young men in their thirties now, to whom I'd taught music and poetry during my seven-year tenure at the Harmony School. I played with old men who were thrilled and emotional to be part of the celebration and with young people who were nervy and serious. Our nine-year-old stage manager solemnly stalked the backstage boards, wearing a fake headset and an invisible watch that he kept checking. It was a lovely night, and I was so fortunate to be part of it.

And now, today, I'll rise from this warm bed, get dressed, go downstairs to drink coffee with Steve, and then wind my way out of the homeland and back to Portland, its far-flung sister. I am full of feelings, and the air is full of cold. It is February in Maine, and before long the sap will begin to run.