No two flakes....

The perfect writing afternoon--even if writing time amounts to only (best case scenario) an hour. No wind, snow falling peacefully. A cup of tea. School work under control (for now). Imagination a pair of treadless boots attempting to scale a hill of black ice. But that's okay. Patience. It's the softness and the solitude that lulls me, that I trust will allow a toehold.

The fevered opposite of this a climbing gym. Plastic thingies to grip and fasten guy-wires to; places to anchor your feet. Every muscle engaged. The ideal place to be in your writing, maybe: that muscular, gripping, gripped mode--but you can't rush it.

So much of the work is listening, watching snowflakes fall and silently laying down tracks. Learning the horizontal landscape before you can even consider heights.