joanna rests her head in her hands there is a little window above the desk looking out into the yard there are the trees waving icily in a chill wind the first buds of spring dying frostbitten on the points of its limbs she pushes her fingers into her hair rests her head down she knows that she looks like david did as he often did when wrestling with his art the unconscious mimicry makes her skin crawl and she lays her head flat on the desk her ear to the heartbeat of the pine wood .