Logs Carrying logs from the back garden, I walk over blackened leaves stuck hard to the ground.   These logs, no longer frozen together, still manage to produce a chill that penetrates my gloves and my wax jacket.   A hot whiskey, I think, will be just the thing.   Behind me, a massive limb, having lost its annual battle with winter wind, retains but a thin hold on the cypress tree.   It will stay that way until John Murphy arrives with his chain saw.   In the kitchen, I feel almost warm as I sip hot whiskey and…