I woke to snow glimmering under thin early-morning light---maybe six or seven inches of white, not a significant amount by north-country standards but by far our biggest accumulation of the season. I love snow, and I'm so glad to see it, and so glad Tom doesn't have to hurtle through it to work today.

An impasto of snow changes the daylight. For the moment, windowshine is cool and delicate; later in the day it will harshen to eye-splitting brilliance, but the gray bare-ground tones are gone, vanquished till snowmelt. Pale is the queen of the hour.

Tom is home today, but I will probably work, at least for a few hours--deal with editing or those writing samples or both; and I've got the week's housework to juggle, sheets and towels to launder, the regular weekly grind to manage, and lots of snow shoveling as well. I did read writing samples yesterday, so I'm not procrastinating, but the pressures of my schedule are looming . . . so much classwork ahead of me, weekend readings to travel for, that television interview to endure and presentations to prepare. What I am trying to do is not scare myself.

And even if I do have to work today, it will be far, far better than allowing myself to perseverate on the horrid chest thumping in Washington. I've got better things to do. Such as love my neighbor. Such as breathe.