Oct. 23, 1990 This morning . . in the dull thud of an axe . . I heard Winter yawn, and stumble out of bed. Now, he's brushing his teeth. Soon, he'll breakfast on milkweed. Then, before I know it, he'll knock at my door . . in the skin of a white Bear. He'll beg for black-bean soup, hot spiced cider, thick rye bread. "O.K." I'll say. "But, you have to eat out on the porch." He'll nod. He will leave me two gifts: One . . the smell of snow. And . . a quiet animal, half tree . . half stone, that holds the blue dusk in her mouth all day. And keeps the loneliness away . . keeps the loneliness away.