In Birdland, snow sifts silently out of a wool-colored sky. At the horizon, the sky is bright and only the bare shrubs at the edge of the field mark where the white field meets white sky. The snow mutes and layers the picture outside my window, steeling color from the covered landscape, so that I have to squint to see the green in the cedar tree and boxwood. I guess it is the same picture I have seen thousands of times, on any winter morning when the wind is low and the snow is ubiquitous. I've probably used similar words to describe the same picture in these letters, but that only points to the cyclical nature of most things.

My semester has begun its own cycle, and my life takes the oblong shape of trips to town. First the drive to town on sometimes treacherous roads, then the walk to campus. When I can remember, or spare the time, I try to keep to my dear friend, Michael's "five miles under" policy. I've read that at 60 mph, your gas consumption increases dramatically. Michael came up with all kinds of benefits of driving more slowly: "You can listen to the radio longer." But for me, a big one is safety. How old was I before I figured out that the faster I drive, the more likely I am to slide off the road into a ditch? I’m embarrassed to say. Yesterday I passed a black, Chevy pick up that had spun out off the road and up a hill, coming to rest next to some barbed wire fencing in a field of corn stubble. I drove on slowly, thinking of sailors passing a shipwreck and taking heed of the dangers.