The lumber I have hauled and the blisters I have won. The places I have floated, boated, paddled, and padded. Who is my muse? Myself. And all my mishap adventures. My students, clients, friends, and significant others all serve as my muses.

The rises and sets of the sun, which unk under the brim of my hat, stung my eyes and roasted my cheeks.

Bum knees. That one lone swollen ankle on the side of the trail in California. Prompting pleeding for water and gifts of ramen noodle soup from passers by.

Broken fingernails.

My youth. my wisdom.

My teachers. My bosses, every job I've ever had, every city I've inhabited, slick highway, coastline, bridge and toll booth.

Don't take the wrong highway leaving Denver, they charge for mountains out there. 12 dollars and 45 cents, increasing exponentially as our slow Pagoslow postal service transports mo tardy payment to the big city. And you call yourselves Coloradans. Hah.

The damp snow-melt on my worn leather shoes reminds me of my 18th birthday. My brother came home from college by surprise visit, 6 months after I'd cried to watch him go--shocking us both.

But my morning routine had been grafted. Because the stereo in my Volkswagon Cabrio worked unlike Drea's matte red truck. And the interstate stop and go traffic would actually grow to annoy me without my brother's constant antics.

Styx. Weird Al Yankovitch. we recited entire albums. From memory and with enthusiasm.

But after all of that, on my 18th birthday party in his best friend's backyard, he arrived. He hugged me from behind and jumped into the pool. shoes. and. all.

And then he taught me how to keg stand. As I think every big brother should.