A warm day, all birds, then snow comes hard again at night and I go out to the woods. No prints, just my creaking feet to remind me each step someone's out here. Then human tracks and I follow, the social reflex, while I write in my head. In a clearing the statue of Gutenberg, a man in a cape, is caped again in snow, and little swastikas are sprayed round the base. Then out on the street I walk in car tracks and hear nothing. Street lights turn on and off as I go by, some kind of trick.