One month at the Jentel Arts Colony in Wyoming was just not long enough for me, but I made the best of it. My schedule was the same everyday. I wrote from morning until dusk. At dusk I walked on dirt road that ran down the center of the valley. The herds of pronghorned antelope ran with stiff jumps, the mule deer stared at me as if I was the craziest sight and the white tailed deer shook their fluffy tails at me. It was a kind of church that I could understand. The walls were made of mountains on either side of the valley, the ceiling was blue sky, and the choir was the cluck of pheasants. It was communion…the wafer was the air, the dry grasses my witness, and the creek was the beat of my heart.