Sometimes, at dusk, San Miguel is almost achingly beautiful. Tonight, I took a coffee and my embroidery up to my roof deck to watch the rich orange sun burn down backed by a high bank of purplish clouds. As I was enjoying the scene, suddenly, from behind the neighborhood bar, came the familiar powerful voice of Pavarotti singing Puccini. I got up on my tiptoes to peer over the mesquite tree to see who this neighbor might be. I don’t know. Against the muted barking of dogs, I watched headlights come down the highway into town, and I remembered how I first came “home” to San Miguel, and I remembered why this is home. Sometimes, all it takes is someone sharing a song (maybe with a noise that for some is too loud), but up on a roof deck, a woman might rise to greet the dusk, astonished at what she found.