It is quiet here. I look down at my hand, scrawling lazily along the blue lined page. This is writing that no one will see. My hand moves but my eyes and ears skitter anxiously, like forest creatures lost and rooting for something familiar. I do not need a writing prompt, no thank you, not today. Today I prefer to sit still, close my mind, allow my hands do the work. Being here is enough. The porch. The swing. The birds singing and cars drifting through this old home of a neighborhood.
Coolness seeps in as the words pour out. Phrases are punctuated by the beating of my heart, commas form rhythms and speak for themselves. When the page turns over, I notice how a dash of sun forms exclamation marks across the words, challenging them, distorting them. Still the words persist.
The whole process takes forever and no time at all. I lose myself in the rhythm of writing until something pushes me out, like the sharp clap of hands at the end of a trance. A chair scrapes across the wooden floor. A dog barks off in the distance. The air in the room shifts back to now, and I am forced to return to the day.
It would not be bad to end like this, pen in hand, the last rush of words tipping over, making first a splatter, then a great glorious stop.