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So, it's a sunny day in Alabama in the middle of the winter, light pours in the southern windows, creating the kind of sunbeams that cats tell their kittens about, curled up in front of a space heater in the middle of a winter night. Southern windows, the kind of windows you can't find nowadays, but a hundred and three years ago when they were installed in this house, full of bubbles as they are, they were made big. The winter sun warms the wood floors. In the summer, the sun is overhead, and before air-conditioning, you could open those big windows, and get some relief.

Here I am, at my desk, within sight of, but not in, a sunbeam, tabulating Rhysling nomination data. If you are a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, send in your nominations. More than 50 of your friends and like-minded colleagues have already done that.