I write outdoors whenever I can, because the winter's long enough. I'm lucky to have a sunny apartment, and of course there's Squirrely and his family outside my window, not to mention cardinals, mourning doves, and the squeaky-clothesline bird, who turns out to be a bluejay. I know because I saw him. (Two points for Tom Phillips and Joe Wallace.) Still, looking out isn't the same as being out, and on a glorious day like this, I take my laptop (that's why I bought the nearly-weightless Macbook Air) and find an outdoor spot. Usually I go to the river, and I did that, but a strong wind's blowing down there and it's seriously cold. I had a meeting this morning downtown. As I walked back up I noticed the open gate on the garden behind St. Luke's. So here I am. It's walled on two sides and fenced all around, and besides, it's two blocks in from the river. Lovely and warm. A goodly number of late-flowering shrubs and fruit trees; plus asters, zinnias, anemones, catmint, and some late roses. The place is full of migrating warblers, local sparrows and pigeons, catbirds, something chirping that I can't identify (can't see him) and even some butterflies, which are gone from the river by now. Bees are working the abelia like nobody's business. On the benches surrounding me are two young mothers and their sleeping babies, a young father and his sleeping baby, and three neighbors, each on her own bench, reading a book.