I started writing this morning, about the cloudy sky and the warmish weather, and the short memory of my body that now insists on warmth and gets sulky when the cold wind blows. But I want to tell you about my house.

The windowsills in our living-room are painted a soft lavender-blue, almost precisely the color of the mountains which sit distant, behind the white barn with its faded silo, behind the bare-yellow willows and the patchwork buffs of field and marsh. In the bright sun and leaf of summer the striking coincidence of color will be lost, but I love it now. For all my sulky yearnings, now is when Vermont makes my favorite weather, the blustery and overcast days, the rain-loud nights. This cloud-stained light that drapes everything in gloomy romance. I love it.

I love that our windows face either the mountains, or the woods. A state highway runs by not a quarter-mile from us, parallel with our street, but a happy arrangement of trees and barns and silos blocks it from view. On the other side, "woods" might be a bit of a generosity, but the scene nonetheless consists of trees and brush and nothing else. From one kitchen window we look straight at the landlady's house, and she at ours. But a chokecherry and several bird-feeders intervene, and hers is a nice house and it's only the one window.

I love that this whole house is ours. This is the first time I've lived somewhere with no shared walls. Of course, I share them all with J, but that's another matter. We can practice guitar and banjo late into the night if we wish, vacuum at early hours if the inspiration strikes. It's lovely.

Also, we have chickens. I love the chickens. They're learning to come when called, and when they do come, it's usually as a chicken stampede. I love the chicken stampede: fat waddly bodies going asfastastheycan, wings flapping for emphasis, trying to maneuver around each other to all get there first. Earthworms have begun to appear, and watching the chickens discover the earthworms provided a solid half-hour of high entertainment. (Even better than watching them discover the electric fence.) They're so damn domestic, all clucky and scratching about, and us with a fridge full of eggs.

It's a good house. It's a good home. Finally, we've got a home.