Habitat. A photograph of a bedroom I have torn from a catalogue sticks into the binding of the yellow pad. A small spotted feather I picked up on a walk, two tiny pine cones I brought home last spring, a couple of Missouri acorns, one kernel of corn, six black pebbles from the beach. A thick dictionary open to a page which is headed distemper. A Christmas stocking mouse holding a fortune which promises: the near future will bring change for the better. She leans against sprouting curly willow, whose roots have sustained me all through autumn. A book I am reading on the natural house and a pair of shoulder pads just liberated from my sweater.