She mused over the old photographs, remembering how carefree their summers had been.

The poets credited their muses for the sudden rush of imagery that filled their pages.

She muses by the window, watching the rain trace slow paths down the glass.

At dusk, the Muses whispered ideas to the tired poet, and he finally found the words he had been seeking.

She sat by the window, museful and distant, watching the rain trace patterns on the glass.

She smiled musingly as she traced the old map with her finger.