Fall is farther along here at home than it was out west. Only the Japanese maple is still brilliant with color. I’ve written about it before. 

Today, it seems a souvenir, a memento from the trip. For so many years my writing has been what I do around the edges of things, something I slipped into the day wherever it might fit. 

The last three weeks have given me an idea of what it’s like when writing comes first. It becomes a glowing thing, a beacon, the last tree gleaming.