Although chronologically middle-aged, I still feel like a youth except on those mornings when time, temperature and joints more used to sitting and typing than running, walking or just moving remind me I have been around a while; then I'm about 432. 

At the foot of Pikes Peak, in the shadow of its usually snow-covered shoulders visible from my bedroom window, J. M. Cornwell writes while looking out over the abandoned-appearing back yard on the other side of a weather beaten, snaggle-toothed fence. While she dreams, she transcribes those dreams into words.