Dusk settles in, companionably. I raise my glass to such an old friend and let the ease of silence settle in, a blanket against the spring chill. I write, not to fill the space but to shape its slow beat to my liking. Words, here and there, songs that are not yet, and may never yet, but that desire their voice to be placed at least on page. I have a commission to write a song for a hundred year celebration. In my mind are trees, magnificent in their age, and I desire to play the whispering of a hundred leafy years in my lyrics. I desire to place each one of those rings within words that breath belonging, of time twined through generations of hands. Blood that flows through hearts and time. I have to sit with these thoughts, let them settle in a bit, feel the way the spill out of themselves into new thoughts, a water cup overturned. It is enjoyable to toss such words into the sky and see how they burn and shine or perhaps just dissipate into the night. Night is for words, for the stream of thought and consciousness that the day holds neatly in. So I sit with my glass, and type the words that the universe unveils.