Last night I fell asleep to the sound of sleet whipping against the bedroom windows, and this morning, as daylight creeps through the low and heavy clouds, I see that the sidewalks and streets and cars and roofs are sugar-coated with a stiff layer of white--not ice, but not exactly snow either; something more like pallid streusel. And now the sleet has returned, to peck at the panes, and dissolve into rivulets that snake down the glass.

I worked hard all day yesterday: at editing, at curriculum prep, at painting. Today will be another such day, under the lamplight, as the grim sky melts into rain. I love these kinds of days, when everything necessary is contained within four walls. When the kettle hiccups and the furnace purrs; when the dishes are clean and the counters are wiped and the bedsheets are chugging in the washing machine. When the books gleam on the shelves and the teacup waits for hot water, and in the distance a train whistle sings. And all I have to do, for hours, is be alone with myself.