Much of my writing and thinking and subsequent poetry begins seated at the window in my home office. where the birds congregate on the other side of the glass, where the sky sometimes summons geese or swans or hawks or eagles. the cliffs opposite, beyond the river, figure prominently. they are cloaked in mist on my favorite mornings, and at other times, like this one from a few mornings ago, take the first light of the risen sun with spectacular effect. they were lit up like this for only a few moments, then the sun found its clouds and all went gray, and darkened again, and my beloved mist began to crawl up the rocky face. how can anyone not find this magnificent? how is this not divine?