There is a conscious level of gratitude when one stands in an empty field in the new snow of December and looks back at the warm lights of home. You know that you may stay out or go in as you wish. Outside the galaxies cartwheel while inside, just 50 yards distant, is a fire in the hearth and your children tucked warm in bed. Outside, you stand with your belly warm with neighbors' wine and food and give drunken (but reverent) thanks for another year. The dog with you is wild for the freedom of deep snow, flings himself at the unbroken, white, expanse with nail and tooth, feints violence. How clean and quiet the night is.
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