So I'm sitting on a deck on a mountaintop in North Carolina, with a view through the trees of the next ridgeline, and there are long-needled pines oaks all around me. Everybody else is napping or hiking or off in Asheville, and I have a burned cup of the pretty good coffee that blackholly and Kelly Link made before lunch, and I'm wearing a chambray shirt and a wool cardigan and I'm barefoot and there's mustard on my jeans from lunch. And it's raining. Not right here, right by me, but a little further down the mountain where I can hear and smell it.
And now the rain has reached the mountaintop, and the ridgeline is all translucent behind a veil of rain and mist, and I have a really good short story to read.