The white cat is on the sheepskin on the lounge on the deck, again, this morning and will steal away silently and swiftly once I open the door to trot out my day, without a backward glance at me who will be forward gazing at him to let him know it is all right, his presence is all right. The frost is again on the rooftops and, this morning, even glittering on the grass. It will wisp away soonest as the sun flattens across it. The urban orchard along Haultain Avenue is winking in a blossom here and there with the promise of open-eyed bloom. Life is full of thresholds.