The wind is up today. I can hear it whistle through the trees, bending the bare brown branches back and forth, whirling little snow devils across the frozen bits of lake. It rattles the windows and teases the curtains. Cold and sharp as broken glass it plays with anything not hunkered down. I went out to mail a letter and tasted the ice on its wing and the foggy wet of my own breath behind a wool scarf. It's a good day to huddle under a blanket and read a book. I'm reading "A Bad Day for Sorry" by Sophie Littlefield. How about you?