Recently I spent the afternoon cleaning the desk my husband and I share - putting away books, dusting, tossing papers in the stove. I put fresh paper in my typewriter and a clear notebook beside it, with the good pens in a jar. I went about my day, waiting for a moment to sit down and write. Ideas came and went, but the opportunity eluded me until late in the evening, watching the moon rise above the trees, I was able to fall into the work, while my husband read, Yarrow crawled off in pursuit of danger, and Luba followed her, sniffing nervously. Since the I’ve been rising early again to eat up more time writing at the window, and typing it up in the evenings when the clack-clack of the old machine won’t wake the household. My husband is grateful, as an early morning for me insures him a warm house, hot coffee, and oatmeal by lamplight. I am grateful because the mornings are mine.