Seagulls swirl up from the bay, circle over the sugared roofs.

A man trudges past, pushing a grocery cart filled with cans.

A clock ticks.

A person wakes suddenly, overwhelmed by dread.

Yet after two days of bitter cold, the temperature has risen to a balmy 20 degrees. I put out a few Christmas ornaments yesterday--scattered, out of Chuck's enthusiastic reach, on window ledge and mantle and doorjamb: a cheerful hodgepodge of nostalgia . . . the paper houses Tom made with the little boys one year; the ancient styrofoam gingerbread men that hung from my parents first Christmas tree, in 1962; the battered felt chicken, a gift from our neighbor, which Ruckus would steal off the tree every single day during the season; the rubber King Kong that T bought me at the top of the Empire State Building when we were very young . . . 

Yet the furnace remains magnificent, and that smart guy who lives here has solved our lingering soot problem.

Yet I worked on a poem. I made braised lemon chicken with olives and pesto over fresh polenta, with a side of buttered spinach and slices of pumpkin bread for dessert.

Snow fell gently as I walked to the library.