I am glad when things are over, when I have reached an end, when I can pull out my tablet or a notebook and write without prickle-back demons jumping out of my consciousness.
I like being able to meditate, to have a mind where things can just pass through, a lonesome highway where I stand by the side of the road observing things and sometimes finding a phrase for my poetry.
I love my wife who is there when an election is making me scream in the night, who knows to put her hands gently on my shoulders and assure me that we will make it.
I am grateful for the roar of the sea and the shush of the wind.
I am grateful for the voices down the hallway and the children in the street when I am thinking or writing because too much silence can be a shout that cannot be hushed save with human noise.
I am grateful for the canyons which dip as their water carves a way to the sea and the mountains that hump the strata of centuries into piles beyond the mere reach of fingers.
The sun pulling the shadows from the wall of the condo across the street gives me joy as does the same hand covering my window in the late afternoon.