There’s a dead tree that hangs over the river that flows behind my house. It’s a favorite haunt of the local eagles, who can perch in the snag and scan the shallow water for fish.
This morning, I spent a good forty-five minutes watching two ravens harass a young eagle perched in that dead tree. I’m not sure whether they were trying to drive the larger bird away or trying to irritate to the point that it would regurgitate its last meal, but as I wondered it occurred to me that I kind love where I live.
I live as far out in the woods as one can comfortably be while still staying within a half hour of a Taco Bell. There’s snow for my dog to roll in in the winter time, and a river for him to swim in in the summer. For me, this might be the perfect setting.
Yet, so much of my writing seems to want to take place in the city. Not a specific city, mind you, just a generically crowded place that stays up late and declares that fact in fluorescent and neon. Maybe the perfect setting for me isn’t the same as the perfect setting for my writing.
What is your perfect setting?