I've been playing with clay and papier mache, marvelling at anvil-shaped snowbanks with frowsy wigs of dry grass, watching gophers ripple across fields suddenly as yellow as they are, peering to examine winter snowshoe hare hair cobwebbing the grass in front yards around the city. Everything feels unreal for a variety of reasons. When the seasons change, there is always a dreamlike period of adjustment. Part of me keeps thinking that as soon as the summer comes, I'll wake up at home. Somehow my body has decided winter = Manitoba, summer = Nova Scotia, as though time and place have somehow blended.