If I go walking in my fields looking for inspirations, they hide. I can make a habit of being inspired, but wild inspirations are skittish. The way to catch one is to not be thinking of anything in particular, which leaves my mind open, the permeable membranes of my imagination inviting and mysterious. Wild inspirations are curious things, they will swoop by, and the more I ignore them and chase about the grass, finding that the sun has not warmed the air enough to evaporate the morning’s dewdrops, the closer an intrigued inspiration will weave, till it weaves into my consciousness. I never trap them, I always let them fly. I see how the sun has set a prism in every drop of water, see how I am running over transient gems. I swoop up the slope, head full of natural, fleeting riches.