The greyest of days, nearly whiteout, as if the blue of the sky had never existed. I watch wet snow fall, big drifts that melt by the time they reach this Earth, and all I can think is: It's been such a garbage year, an election result induces euphoria.

The birds are finally pecking at my hanging heart of fat, seeds and nuts. They shy away when they spy me, peering from my desk, behind the smeared civility of glass. But desperation will tame them, soon. Isn’t that awful?

I count four tiny flickering silhouettes in the skeletal shade. Thunder, like giants bowling in the hills. Night comes shortly.

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