Spring. I’ve been sitting this one out. That’s the inevitable consequence of working on a book. I write in silence and indoors; I might just as easily be sitting in a dark, windowless cell, for all I see outside my river-facing window.

Except for this past Saturday. I raised the sun-umbrella on high, took the cover off my big old wrought- iron and comfy-padded patio recliner and ensconced myself under the old laptop. An experiment, admittedly, to see whether the un-ignorable outdoors would overpower my inner view. Good news. It didn’t. (I think that my last book, written umpty-years ago–was set almost fatally off-schedule by the fact that I did a lot of writing in front of an open fireplace. I had/have an almost Aspberger’s visual attraction to flames. Same thing with being outside.)

There were some unexpected benefits as well. The chill wind from the front of the house never made it around to where I was. But all the smells did. And the little guys–the flying ones who’ve found me again on their way back from Southerly places–had forgotten that humans are things to be frightened of.

They landed on the arm of my chair. They stopped by for a quick chat inches from my hand. They flew past my head, close enough to feel their wings. I liked that. I may have to do it again, before the weather gets too hot, the sun too bright and the bugs too pesky.

A consolation to silence: I always have the car journey to the house to pump myself up on David Byrne and John Adams before I enter my delightfully monastic cell–the one with the view.

More about writing soon. It fits with the Nature stuff better than you’d believe.