These days, I mostly write at that same dining room table now settled for his second incarnation in the corner of a room that overlooks the garden and a ravine with a Carolinian forest, north-exposure light streaming through three walls of windows, birds trilling on the deck or rain pecking at the skylight. When spring finally arrives (will it?), I will write on the rickety IKEA deck table.
And when I have a moment to spare, I write at the meeting table in my office.