on the writer being written

And the words at last roll in, drenching the shores of conscious endeavor, mighty rivers o’erspilling their banks and soaking wide valley bottom fields, segmented by time and place and purpose. Graceful and boisterous sentences pour in, whole and unbidden and better than any I might craft with all my steady will and intent, tying fast together the many small boats stuffed with fieldnoted survivors and hazarded guesses as to what narratives might possibly come once the living was done.

All prior guesses were off, wrongheaded, not meant to be. This one? Having shaken off the heel dust of trauma and loss and what is not now nor ever can be? Just long enough to catch and ride those towering waves one split second more anyway? Rounds the bend toward home.


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