AT THE KITCHEN TABLE The late spring snow catches us off-guard, drifts against the henhouse wall, blots out the distant fells. And here, in this borrowed house, we watch, transfixed, brave the blizzard to throw scraps for the birds, half-wishing it could always be like this. Just you and I at the kitchen table— a dog-eared novel, the weekend papers, the last bottle of wine waiting on the shelf until the sheep are fed. Yet we know the snow will...
