The morning after, he woke to pale pink streaks slashing across the gray-blue dawn. He started the coffee maker, tugged on a jacket and shuffled outside to feed the chickens and the horses, then back inside to feed the dogs. The house was still quiet, that kind of silence that holds promise.

A blank canvas, before the chaos of the day.

He took off his jacket, poured the first cup of coffee, and considered the chaos, some welcome, some not, some chosen, some not. Some time ago, he’d created a sanctuary behind his eyes where only creativity and communion were allowed to enter, but lately he’d been lazy in manning the door. That was a choice.

He stepped back outside to check the horses’ water, bracing his bare forearms against the cold, but a warm wind was already blowing toward the coast from the desert, pushing the noise of the waking world away from the house and toward the ocean.

Which is where he found himself as the sun rose on the morning after, buoyed by saltwater and a visit from the local pod of dolphins.

This, he thought, this is a better choice.