I wake up, put on my snow pants, moccasins, and robe — the same coffee stained clothes I’ve worn every day the last month — shuffle into the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker. I look through the sliding glass doors to the rickety back deck. There’s a giant easel made of 2 x 4s leaning against the railing. Beyond the deck is a part marshy, part shrubby, part woody yard with a log chicken coop, and large compost bins made of old floor boards. The deck is covered with flower pots — clay, plastic, ceramic, wood; some have plants, some have dead plants. There’s other ornamental pieces — an old, rusty lantern; an old, rusty industrial hook with pulley wheels; and a horse skull.