…of classes today is solemnly being covered up, mounded into a huge hill of snow, and snow, and more snow. The sky is building a quinzee of the earth. I must run out and stake an opening, mark the spot where I’ll sit with a few other writers (at least those that know how to dig in and dig out) and talk about the whether of writing, the cold reality of it, all the while warming the core of our crusted conversations with the sound of it.