We can make stories from anything. From last night’s expected unsettled sleep filled with a dream of volcanoes withdrawing their fire, the cones going dark like eyes closing over a fever. Then add something as aimless and common as a fox’s scream from the edge of a wood at first light. Yet morning is here again, there are good bagels to eat with Maine Blueberry jam, the big windows let in the sky, the azalea is a brilliant red, and I’m writing to friends far away whose voices have stayed with me. The birds in the maples are weaving their symmetries, the coffee is hot, and my luck is holding.
