"But you can't do that," I said to myself, nixing whatever rising enthusiasm my idea-brain had just come up with. "It's already after nine, and you still have to publish for today."
I was driving west-ish on US6 away from Keystone back toward Silverthorne. The few-days-from-full waxing moon hovered high above the Ten Mile Range ahead-left. Wind whistled in through the open sunroof. In the cool mountain air, today's blast-furnace Front Range felt so distant as to have become like a fading dream, rather than my lived reality of just a few hours ago.
What will I write about? I had no idea. Something will come before midnight. Something always does.
The air was heavy with firesmoke, and the moon illuminated the sky into a glowing blue-silver, and the mountains stood dark and distinct below. I came around a bend and Lake Dillon spread out in front of me, its planar expanse surrounded and contained within the bowl-like not-flat of the in-every-directions mountains. Under the moon the water shimmered silver like mercury.
What will I write about? Surely I can blow the dust off my fingertips and tap out on the keys some simulacrum of that shivery quiet sense of magic that even amongst the recent challenges of my life I could not help but feel.
Whispered promises from an estranged lover may not ring against your hardened heart, but still the gentle breath across your ear makes waves in your soul.