John, Oliver, and I are luxuriating in the drop-dead gorgeous weather and views here at the cabin. I have become addicted to my small rock-enclosed garden. Oliver delights in being off leash with his big delicious sticks. And John reads and reads and reads. I’m trying to translate all this spatial freedom into words (and eventually poems) but am overcome by not doing. Am I lazy or porous or hypnotized or all three?