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Tonight the air dips low again, down beneath zero as a north wind whispers through the trees. Waylon sleeps wrapped in a handmade blanket from his Gammy, Edge constructs a timber frame saw-horse by candlelight, and the dogs curl up on the futon. Up on the lofted bed, warm air collects and holds me. Outside, the snow has turned to styrofoam in the dry cold that has pushed in over us, and stars glow neither brightly nor dimly as a cloudy haze rises from the ridge line of the Worcester range. Tomorrow they call for snow, but for now all is still, as if the air has frozen even this moment, the steady rhythm of Edge’s saw and the tap-tap of my keyboard paused and framed in this picture of a winter’s night.