It’s strange that I can go for days or weeks feeling that there’s nothing to write about. One part of me, of course, knows that there is always something to write about. Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to be the part of me that actually does the writing. But then, stars align, or the sun hits the snow in just the right way (I originally typed “write way” which may be more accurate), or the right person looks my way with smiling eyes, and the next thing I know there is everything to write about. The world and every moment of it is a poem, the trick is being able to hear the music continually raging and whistling beneath the cacophonous bleating of your own thoughts.