The deep-freeze continues in the little northern city by the sea--three degrees above zero this morning, and the cat refuses to even consider stepping outside. I think I'll take my morning walk in the afternoon.

That is one of the luxuries of moving off the farm: now nobody's life depends on my rushing outside into the worst possible weather. I don't have even woodshed chores; all of this season's fuel is already in the house. Easy heat, easy water, easy septic, easy light: I'm not sure I'll ever fully get used to this world. But on a frigid morning I'm glad to be grateful.

Yesterday was busy but productive--even, as paying work goes, enjoyable: editing at my desk all morning, then a break to clean floors, and then reading writing samples by the fire all afternoon. It was the venue that made the enjoyment possible. My study is cozy and bright, and a woodfire makes all tasks better; and while I have nothing good to say about vacuuming and mopping, I do appreciate the aftermath--bright floors and fresh soapy smells and the satisfaction of not having to do it again for another seven days.

Today will be more or less a repeat, minus the floors and plus a trip to the grocery store. I've got classwork to hammer out this week as well, but I think I'll push that forward into tomorrow. And I've got Saturday's reading to prep for, and a long drive into the western mountains to map out. I'll be appearing with Maine poet laureate Julia Bouwsma at the Carrabassett Public Library, 1:30 p.m., so if you happen to be anywhere near Sugarloaf that afternoon, come hang out with us.

In the meantime, I'm staying put, and apparently the cat is also staying put; and in a minute I'll put on the kettle and make a cup of tea and start fidgeting with my morning chores--making the bed, sorting laundry, washing the breakfast dishes; and outside cold hovers over the stiffened snow, and in my thoughts words sparkle and run like a spring river, dancing downstream so quickly that I barely glimpse their shapes.