A Great Horned Owl hoots from upriver. A distant car plies the narrow hill-roads. I sit in the front yard, wrapped in Scottish wool, across from the silent pasture.

The days are full, but unfinished. Days of despair, followed by days wholly realized. Christmas, solitary. But full.

One day I chase the ideas. The next, they chase me. The 3 a.m. tape recorder is busy again. The words come from mysterious places. The real world gets farther and farther  away.

Two eagles, a male and a female, flew over my head this morning as I walk. My life is reduced to food on the stove, coffee from the French Press, herons on the hill, cats in lap, wood in the stove.

Does anyone want to come back from a place like this? Not sure I know. Not sure I want to.

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