Winter now. At night the stars are alive, the Milky Way is misty. White shouldered trees are steeled against the northwest winds. Beyond the field where the horses snort and paw, fir trees stand black against a smalt horizon.
Inside the house is glowing; Moose the big bulldog stretches under the table; Chloe, the terrier is curled on a chair. I'm knitting socks and dishcloths and painting. I'm poring over seed catalogues, drinking tea and planning.
"Oh world, I cannot hold thee close enough, thy winds, thy great wide skies." I well believe Edna St. Vincent Millay was a Mainer. This is Eden, and I'm going to buy that spinning wheel on time. Hermione is at the Stover farm, having her tryst with Midnight, and hopefully she'll come home with a doe or two to birth in May.
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