My plants are whispering to one another: they are planning a little party later on in the week about watering time. I have quilts on beds and walls that think it is still the 19th century. They know nothing of automobiles and jet planes. For them a wheat field in January is their mother and enough. I’ve discovered that I don’t need a retirement plan, a plan to succeed. A snow leopard sleeps beside me like a slow, warm breeze. And I can hear the inner birds singing alone in this house I love.