Where does inspiration lie? I’ve asked myself that question often since I’ve been here. Does it wait for us in the pages of books, the work of others? 

Does it greet us on the springy, needle-covered paths that wind through the woods near here, the woods that are tempting me even now?

Maybe it lurks in vistas I glimpse from those woods, the shining waters of inlet and strait?

Right now it’s coming from notes scribbled long ago, from yellowed pages and handwriting much like my own. 

(Yellow leaves, yellowed pages.)