On those cold, clear winter mornings, I rise in the dark, and I sit
beneath a lamp with a pen and paper in a circle of light
barely bright enough for the work. The window beside me is black
and blank, and soon I'm staring only through the window of the page
at whatever I'm drawing from ink and concentration. Hours pass,
and, always when I least expect it, there's a sudden tide of light
as the sun crests the mountain. When the first rays flood the fields,
the thin yellow curtain behind me brightens, and the room swells
with light. Everything is suddenly golden and illuminated,
and for just that one moment, I make the glorious and forgivable
mistake of thinking it has something to do with me.
published in the August 2011 issue (Issue 428) of The Sun (http://www.thesunmagazine.org/)