I wish every day could be Sunday in Eureka Springs. I am surrounded by limestone hills that look into natural steep valleys. It has been raining for the past 3 days and water seeps through crevices in stone walls. Flowers grow in abundance like the Black-eyed Susan and Larkspur. The Indian Paintbrush paints brilliant red-orange and Coreopsis are healthy in yellow to reddish brown. The purple Coneflower pops up everywhere and close by visit tiny white flowers of Queen Anne's Lace and lovely Bergamot (bee balm). I have arrived -- the Writers' Colony. And this morning I have little to say although I am full of words of poetry. They spin inside my head like a top throwing out nouns and verbs at random which I grab and quickly write down so as not to forget the order of letters that flew not floated from someplace in the depth of the hills and valleys in which they are often lost for a time or forever, these words.