Outside the sky is a watercolor of clouds, the air is cold but not brutally so. Twigs stick out from the soft carpet of snow. Some are young trees. Others are poison ivy seemingly disarmed but still carrying noxious oil. Dried stalks of herbaceous plants hold viable seed, like the tall goldenrods and asters that edge my garden beds. When I accidentally brush against them, fluff and seeds rain down to lie in wait for the growing season.