The week is suddenly full. I wake now in the moments before dawn; by the end of the month I suspect there will be light enough to dress by, leaking around the roman shades. The drive to work begins with the long sigh of morning light across the fields. In three days of warm last week the world was revealed: cornstalks, fire hydrants, raised beds in our backyard, the carcasses of various road-dead animals, mud. Then a storm to make sure Saint Patrick is not jealous of Valentine. The fields gone white again after a new snow. He guesses two more weeks and then spring will make her advance and not retreat.

The workday goes quickly, mostly. I am learning as fast as they have time to teach me. I volunteer to walk all the dogs and forget that I have to watch them for quality of bowel movement and quantity of urine, and I stare out into the creekdeep gulley full of sumac and snowy trees and I breathe the cold air. Last week the scent of rain.

On the drive home I sing loud and look forward to the kiss that awaits me. On Saturday morning I sleep late, late, late and we make blueberry pancakes (local flour, frozen local blueberries, local milk and eggs!) and coffee (from a friend in Columbia, so local to him at least) and then I read or bake or go back to sleep. Or all three. Today we're going skiing - if it's going to snow, I might as well enjoy it.