Winter is a time for little deaths—even in the desert. The three patio trees outside my window lose their leaves, mostly; it’s the only time of the year my room gets any light. Palms spread their seed upon the ground. The migratory birds go; other animals gather then hibernate away their short lives. (Only crows remain in the LA streets, sounding their beaks against the gloss-stained surface of telephone poles. Like woodpeckers.) The people stay even more indoors, cuddled into the arms of their neighborhoods. As Edith Sitwell said, “Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”