A silent house is morning’s gift to a writer. Sounds held at a distance. Too early for fishermen. Too damp for lawnmowers. Mist over the river, mist over the field, punctuated by nothing more than birdchirps and the melancholy sound of meadowlarks in the pasture.

Quiet is the staging ground for the day. The place for thoughts to assemble in an orderly rank. A place for letting possibilities come in. A place for equalizing the Inside and Outside. Feeding cats, making coffee (or heading out for some exercise) are the autopilot activities that permit other, better, more complex things to happen.

TV does not exist in the quiet house of mornings. Nor does radio. Or conversation. This is private, sacred space. The Writer’s Temple built into this cage of bone atop the shoulders. No fear in it. No empty in the empty. Challenges are all ahead of us, here. All that lives here is anticipation; and expectation about what the day–and those living beings inside my mind–will offer.