Sitting by candlelight after a full day of writing that vanished out from under me. A happy thing.

Watching the night gather. Watching the light make rainbows on the whirling CD in the player. Watching in awe the brilliant, shining thing my life is at this moment.

I am listening to the exquisite, exultant melancholy that is Arvo Part’s Cantus in Memory of Benjamin Britten. And I know that I want—for one moment in my life—to know that my work means as much to someone as this work means to me.

For one week, I am holed-up at the house on the river, writing an essentially urban book from a place that is exactly the opposite. I have chosen well.

Dever is never silent. Denver is (at least where I have decided to live) concrete strung with Christmas lights. Crickets don’t chirp in the city. The air is not heavy with the smells of green. My feet do not touch ground. As it should be.

The river house exists in a bubble of peace; at night, the air conditioner is the loudest sound. Eagles wake me in the morning. I have these gifts for a week, and for a lifetime after city-work is done. I had not forgotten how much I love this space, yet I am glad to be so well reminded.

Music from the CD. Music in my head. Music of darkness and light. Music of solitude, cloaked by a generous muse. One perfect moment in a string of them. I am eyes, here. And ears. And words.

This is what I want. This is what I am.