PAUL CHRISTENSEN

Snow fell here in central Vermont while we were having a family reunion over Thanksgiving in Connecticut. We returned north that Saturday and as we entered Massachusetts the shoulders of the roads were dusted with a coating of twinkling crystals. The fences were jeweled with ice, in the most precise patterns, as if some pastry chef had come through with his icing gun and decorated all the borders of some fabulous but invisible cake. The car was warm, a bag was bulging with tu

The cold lingers here day after day, a metaphor of old age or illness. Your limbs are heavy, the shoes go on your feet reluctantly. The bed lies there still warm from sleep, with the quilt jumbled up, and the pillows looking like so many unanswered questions. Outside, under the shale-colored clouds, the world looks distant, hardened by the shrunken sun and the muddy ruts, which almost look kiln-hardened. The poor worms are tucked away in some recess of the dark, waiting for s

Big freeze last night; dark skies covered us and then the temperature fell into the 20s. I know some field mice gave up on the outside world and took to their secret tunnels under the house to come in and share our heat. They have cubbies and tiny nests built into the crawl spaces, and they know where to find newspapers to shred for their bedding. We have two mother mice that took over our mailbox outside, with some scrawny little newborns tucked into the confetti, and a pile