.: tail end of the day, and it tastes like sugar maple and cream sherry; the wind is ouside, where it should be, and I am inside– but I can’t decide if I am as rightfully situated as the Austru, gusting down the mountain. But truth be told, my head aches a little and my body has a slight bend to it, impressed on it by the many chores performed today in the raw world of New York winter. So perhaps it is best to sit in the silent living room, draw in my oft-neglected sketchbook, and sip the thick, golden alcohol that reminds me so much of my Grandmother. My usual late-night companion has retreated to the upper climes, no doubt too fatigued by the mammoth walk we took down Crooked Brook Road this afternoon. Or, perhaps, the howl of the wind and the rather mournful wail of the snowmobiles has sent him into hiding, as he has shown himself to be a bit skittish: last night, while we shared the couch, the winds saw fit to throw the snow shovel to the ground… our fearless guard dog lept from the cushions, tail between his legs, and ran behind the Christmas tree, looking at me with pleading eyes. I had to laugh.

Too much to recount, and little energy to do so: it is often the most difficult way to conclude a day of wondrous exploration and the labours of wood and snow. All the thoughts that were so pressing, so burning, so intent on being written– they seem to fade, or retreat, like young Jaxon, to the upper climes of my head. Perhaps if I were a real writer, I would climb to the attic and drag them from their dusty yet comfortable corners, but alas! I am not… I am a creature of my appetites, and a victim of my pleasures.

Every morning I arise, not fully rested yet too eager to lay in bed past sunrise. Tonight I go to bed early, to perhaps give to myself the gift of deep slumber. To sleep, perchance to dream; to dream, perchance to see; to see, perchance to know; to know, perchance to convince. From a warm heart in a bed of snow, I wish you a good night.