I never know what it is that will galvanize my muse into action. I can seek and never find, but when I least expect it, something or somebody will reach that hidden place and the words will tumble from my fingers and onto the keyboard.

A typical example of this happened almost three weeks ago when I saw the first puff of smoke rise into the sky from a place beyond my mountain. Drought had turned our forests into a tinder boxes of fuel waiting for that first spark and the wind to tease the flames, beckoning them to skip through the greenery like a greedy caterpillar on a cabbage leaf. There was nothing for me to do, but watch from my vantage point miles away as the puff became a plume, and then, a cloud, a thunder head of cookie dough colored smoke, obscuring the moonrise, coloring the sunrise. While an army of firefighters were being mobilized and heavy bombers were being loaded with retardant, I transformed myself into the living breathing forest. Several days later, a lengthy poem emerged.

My Muse is fickle. Although she does not appear at my command, she is always near, ready to chase an idea, capture it, and nurture it to fruition. I do not write according to the rules and perhaps that is wrong. If it feels good and it flows, then I know it's good, by my standards anyway. I write for pleasure, for therapy, to expand my imagination. I write for me first, and then to share with those who happen to like what I write.