I write with a view.

Not a particularly challenging thing to seek out…a lovely view waits beyond every window here. A pasture and hills from the office. A bedroom window full of stars at night. Another bedroom that has the sun over the mountain for an alarm clock. And the living room.

The view from the cat-scratched chair was a measured choice. Just enough lawn, just enough tree and birdfeeder; just enough river, just enough hill. In the late mornings, I write in a hat to keep the sun out of my eyes. This room is warm in the sunshine. In the afternoon, it gives me a view of the shadows that paint the hillsides.

The good days are the ones in which I see none of it.

These are the days where the words and I are one. In the silence of the room, the page is the world. Time is an artificial construct. Eating requires a conscious self-reminder (the occasional doctor’s nap does not.)

The work has been going so well, lately, that I’ve found myself exhausted and happy at the end of the day. Yesterday, in the mild weather (nearly 60 degrees), I rewarded myself with a glass of wine in a chair out back and a looksee at the late day’s birds, the river, the hills, the changing light. What I found startled me.

On that quiet afternoon, outside was quieter than inside had been. Bigger, but quieter. No ceiling on it, no walls to enclose it. Quieter. The day had been so full of the music of the words that the universe inside had been louder than the greater one on the other side of the glass.

A disorienting awareness, at first…one that turned wondrous…that a pane of glass could mark such a startling division between worlds. The music inside, the silence outside. And me, suspended between the two.