I woke up too late to see the moon sink behind the trees on the other side of Mill Creek, but not too late to watch the osprey leave their nest for their morning hunt. Mornings here are quiet. The silence calls me to the blank page. Is it too late to begin again? A wise woman told me once that a poet does not have to write every day but she needs to think like a poet every day. That thought brought a tear to my eye. Was that sadness for the poems I have not written or joy for the poems I will write? The moon rises every night. It is not always full.