I miss the Writer's Almanac. At 6:50, I miss it - I am at a meeting, at the xerox machine, at the library. I am anywhere but at my radio. My mind is all business, no room for poetry.

At 6:30, I was in my car, stopped at a red light, watching the sky turn from navy, to dark purple, to pink. I was in the perfect spot, at the perfect time. My mind was all poetry.