Outside the clouds are dense and low; at 4pm they start to darken. Today they were a bruised lavender, lit in a strange glow. Yesterday it snowed and today it rained and turned everything into ice. We haven't seen the sun since Sunday. The birds eat voraciously. We go through a bird feeder a week. Two suet cakes have slowed them down. The days are being pinched down between the thumb and forefinger of the nights. We make soup. We bake bread. We read. We write. Winter hasn't even yet begun.