And it was snow, inches and inches, soft and powdery covering the meadow and all the wooded trails. Big splotches of icey snow floating on the surface of the Charles. I am wearing my cross country skies, I am cutting my trail across the meadow, under the snow filled evergreen branches. Snow is falling on our heads. Charlie and Suzi race and roll in the thick soft wet snow. Berries, snow covered, frozen ornaments cling to branches. I keep skiing, past the brook into Rocky Narrows, we’re all alone. But, here comes a skier toward me on the lonesome trail. He has no company of dogs. As we pass I say, “Glorious morning!” and he, skiing by, can’t decide, should he stop? I say, I’ll ski in your tracks and you ski in mine.” He says, “Yes, I’ve been wondering if it makes sense to cut the trail over to the side so the hikers won’t wreck the tracks.” Charlie nuzzles him, and he shoos him away. “Well, people will do what they’ll do,” I say, and we are skiing off in our own directions now. I have skied these trails years enough to realize that the tracks I make belong to everyone, human and animal. Today’s trail may very well be gone by tomorrow. Who cares? He is in his mind; I am in my spirit. I keep going this way all the way, I take a long ski. Early winter, this is what it seems. I will get so much skiing in before Christmas! I am thinking about all of last night’s poems; each of us with our own voices. Some polished poems, some first drafts. Every bit of the listening to each other’s writing worthwhile. It’s so encouraging to be part of the early drafts, the first drafts of other writers. All writers. Every kind of writer and aspiring writer. I am interested in the seed of inspiration. I’m interested in possibility. I believe in what’s messy, that it can be meaningful and messy, and it can be changed too. I am messy. I can change. Tonight, I was cleaning up a few dishes, heading upstairs momentarily. My son came in, he was making his dinner after his long day. “Thanks for the massage yesterday,” he said.