Winter comes. And it comes fast. A flurry of snow yesterday, too wet to stay. This morning there were white spots of hail on the ground. I walk as Frank l. Baum’s tin man, his body in need of oil, of grease, of cranking up. And yet the air is delicious, and when the wind ceases, so still. A half moon shone its best and stars glittered. No birds. No shouts. Just me and the milkman.
