Pandemic winter. Night. I have grown my first beard these months. A winter storm rages. I wander peters hill with icicles growing on my face (something i’ve always imagined but never experienced). My 24 year old son is with me. This scourge has brought us closer than ever. Nobody else in sight. No sounds or lights from the distant city. No footprints. No paths. No dogs. Just whiteness and sky and me and my boy. The magical silence of a blizzard. Snow swirling, gusting. I am warm and dry inside my layers. My boots fit well. We imagine we are deep in the Russian wilderness. We feign accents. We run and slide and cavort and wrestle. We scan the horizon for horses and carriages but do not spot any. COVID is far away, a dream. We talk about all things and about nothing in particular. There is no place I’d rather be and no one I’d rather be there with. We are right here right now and all is good in this tired broken world. We are at home in the arboretum.