PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I have a modest stash of red wine in the house, and a canister full of my favorite pipe tobacco, Peterson's "Night Cap," a pungent oriental mixture with a dash of Perique and gobs of Latakia from Syria. Smells like bacon as I puff away in the easy chair. The steady percussion outside the window is from the roof melting, a pleasant sound like some squirrel nibbling on an acorn. The bugs are waking up; stink bugs have crawled up the windowpanes and stand there like little Giaco

I looked out my window after brushing my teeth this morning and saw a tree blazing with white blossoms! It was startling, like a gulp of whiskey. I looked again and saw gobbets of snow on each branch, luminous as nickles. Oh well. Winter will have six more weeks of amnesia before we can sniff the pungent breath of thawing soil. Patience. Go slow. Drag your feet a little. The only fragrance in the house is last night's ashes in the grate. Snowplows drag their blades down the r