A woman stopped me on Hollywood Boulevard last month, and asked if she could take pictures of my hair.

It’s like a gift, wrapped in birdsong, tied with morning’s sun. An early start to day-long permission to do nothing more than putter at the potting bench, dig in the soil, rearrange the flowerbeds.

The shadows of pines notched the edge of the meadow; the expanse of snow, like a bowl in its middle, was creamy-white in the moonlight.

Dreaming and scheming from here, lately (and if I’m being honest, from the bed and the sofa, too, as I’ve work/rested my way through a recent late winter illness). Working one thing out, then another, steadily, and what feels slowly at times, making my way through projects big and small.

High moonlight captures winter’s leafless trees as it falls, drawing them in silvery-black ink across the snowy canvas below.

The hand drawn calendar in my linen clad notebook is telling me January is almost over. One more day, is all.

End of day. A gradual darkening, a drawing closed. A drowsy surrender to the stillness of night.

It’s true. January might be my favorite month (ah, yes, until October comes…)