There's a moment in Vermont where fall bleeds into winter, more like a gash than a slow wound, a time when the leaves have shed, the perpetual gray sky has moved in and the chill really means it. I have difficulty adjusting. Looking out the window shortly after dawn, I see, to my horror, that it is snowing. My horror centers on the uncovered lettuce and chard and parsley and basil. Old sheets collected, I fly out of the house to cover them and realize, oh silly me, I am barefoot.