|Early morning from my east facing window.|
I'm staying on top a mountain near East Calais, Vermont, and the beauty of sound and sight and fragrance is balm to my soul. There is no hum of the highway half a mile away; no jarring sirens of emergency vehicles responding to the needs of the one million people living in a single county; no ridiculously heavy footsteps of the family in the apartment above me. Instead, I listen to the calls of birds I can identify (killdeer, crow, robin, some kind of owl) and the songs of those I don't yet know. This quiet is like a drink of cool water on a warm day.
I am inspired to write, energized to do so now. Being in Vermont, I can't help but think of poet Robert Frost. He worked the land, knew the people, and recorded them in verse that grasps their vitality and reality. I feel a kinship to him in shared loves. I am writing in Vermont.