Two weeks on a mountain top, surrounded by trees and the rumor of bears. Two weeks of writing. Two weeks of no housework. No phones. No internet.
I took a walk down the road, to the place where blacktop became gravel. I stood, listening. The buzzing of the many bees at my feet nearly drowned out the faint sound of running water.
Somewhere down there a creek, mountain cold.
Above and behind me, a woodpecker hammered five times. My signal to turn and reclimb the hill.