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January 12, 2007
Night has come again. At the end of a long day, I sit up, awake, listening for words in my head. But the house is quiet, even the wood stove has stopped crackling and sunk into silence. It was 4 below zero this morning, and it is as if the cold is a bottomless sink not only for heat but for sound as well. No birds call, no twigs snap as deer pass. The pen on paper sounds like mice scratching at insulation in the walls, working at the spun glass barrier that separates me from the dark, absorbing cold.