Inside Winter It’s the kind of snow there’s a constant More of. The plows and trucks and blowers, out all night long are still going strong at 10am. Cars slide gently sideways to stop signs. Kids and grown-ups both are thoroughly snow-suited, booted, winter-gloved and touqued as they kick & trudge through piled white, falling white, blowing – white everywhere. Dogs leap and dive in it; parked cars have long since disappeared, save for a stripe of colour along their sides. Third-floor roof of the studio building. Looking Southwest across the harbour The coffee tastes better. The blankets are warmer. The books are more intriguing; the art more tantalizing now that there’s time to look deeply. The music has such clean white space around it, it’s almost visible. I’ve dug out my knitting projects. I find myself puttering, replacing buttons, fixing collars, darning holes in old sweaters. Just heard the opening phrase of a new song: 3 cello voices, descending, one rising, to A minor; hold. Then vocals… I’ve said this before, but it’s true enough to say twice: I love what winter does to me.