The Journal

Before the wind comes up the valley, the reservoir goes still enough to hold the mountains twice. Most people sleep through it.

Between the aspens and the snow, the mountain town lets out its breath. Some mornings you can hear the creek from the middle of the street.

The grade is gentle because trains could not climb steeply. Walk it, or drive it slowly, and you are moving at the pace of another century.

The month the second book was finished, the podcast learned its own music, and the scone recipe finally got an address. Notes from a literary house at nine thousand feet.