By Jonathan Shipley I’m writing these lines when it’s -8º outside. I just walked the marsh in the pre-dawn light. It was cold. Quite cold. Bundled up, though, I could make my way on the desolate trails: beneath the empty trees; alongside the frozen ponds; up the hillocks of prairies; down the frozen tumps; through the crystalline landscape towards the car; and back home. And, as I write this (warm now in a sweater, cozy now on the sofa), I think of how cold things can be and