Darkness comes so much earlier than I am prepared for that I know it must be winter. The leaves have turned to mud, then frozen; last weekend ice sheeted a bridge so that I crept across it in first gear, with no attention to spare for the dozens of cars collected along the guardrail. Sunlight has taken on a miraculous quality, the sky turned pale and cold. My poor California blood grows sluggish and the haul out of bed in the morning harder even than usual.