Muse Ecology . . .   . . . or so I heard you say. I see the garden gates open to welcome you — He’s here, the voices breathe. Our scholar. Every star is sparkling at noon. “Ferns,” you note, “austere in their perfection, olive groves — there is a pleasing greenness here.” And soon the daughters appear, graceful, swirling — “a bit dizzy,” you write, observing herons, the water burbling by, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine blended with desire. But when they raise their metered voices in a trance of music and thought, shadows of the good, it comes to you — inspiration! — and then you toss away your pen and start to dance.                                                            for Joe Straus     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2014