Home. To the river, late winter, a tree battered landscape after storm of high winds, to the dogs, a light snow, a walk in the woods before dusk.
As I pick my way over fallen branches covering the trail, I look for a picture to express my gladness, but it's overcast and spitting snow and the woods seem dull and full of the messiness of March. The river is overflowing its banks, the brook is gushing over the trail. My phone battery, unused to the cold, is cranky and keeps shutting off. Finally, at the end of my walk, I manage to snap one photo, and not a good one, but an inviting one: my house from the trail with its promise of warmth and welcoming lights. I will go inside and make a fire.
This morning, I woke in the Caribbean to birdsong and a chattering voice in my head, writing, spontaneously dictating the next lines of my essay. I must write them down and I do. Having returned to my essay with confidence and enthusiasm to find what is there, it rushes forth.
