Good morning. It's still gray here, yes, but the glittering sound of that soft C is reflected in the Christmas lights strung from the French doors to the wood stove, and light is abundant, in: All the Living, by C.E. Morgan, which both frustrated and amazed in equal measure (and when you get that close to love, it is a light worth sharing); apple and arugula salad with rosemary dressing; old wool sweaters turned into snug baby pants and felted mittens; two barred owls and one bald eagle; the first few pages of Things that Are by Amy Leach; ice on water and light on ice; early morning dance parties full of baby you can drive my car and toothless grins; cranking the woodstove so we can all go barefoot; sky between trees and trees under sky; the moon that wakes us at three am through this purple curtain; the snow that comes and goes and comes and goes again; my daughter's voice; my son's eyes; the glitter spilled across the floor that no-one has yet bothered to sweep up; and that bath, yesterday. Oh yes, that bath. In the late afternoon. With piping hot water and a candle and the most recent copy of The Sun. That was a dizzying bright light amidst all this gray. May your day be pocked and diaphanous and perforated with the particular light of winter, too.