It's happening. I sit in the silence of my orderly if not clean house, showered, the dishes done, the laundry humming a floor beneath my feet. Late afternoon sunlight makes prairie-pattern squares on the hardwoods and my papers sit in neat, unmolested piles on the dining room table. I can hear the house. I can hear my thoughts. I can hear the sound of sweet, spring sunshine warming the maples outside, waking them.