It’s another one of those nights; quiet, cold, late and lifeless.
Angry rain releases its fury onto the tin roof of my small guide cabin and wind-strewn branches scrape the thin glass window that looks out towards the vast, dense forest bordering the Dean River.
To my left, Colby snores heavily into his blanket, his whisker-clad nose and thick furred shoulders twitching furiously as he sleeps through the storm.
I smile at him; yes, it would appear that these nights have the same effect on us all.
The welcome flicker of a dancing flame livens up even the most ordinary of glass jars and the yellow glow lights the paper rested on my lap, allowing my eager pen access to the crisp white canvas.
I gaze at the two inornate objects; both so underestimated yet both so capable. The irony doesn’t make its way past me, and I am reminded again of why at an early age I was drawn to the comfort of such tools.
As pen meets paper, a literary intimacy begins and both merge as one until the birth of a message unfolds.
In the past, I have been confined by the simplicity and politics of strict editors and conservative publications.
“April, perhaps a light-hearted piece is in store? Maybe one on gear, or presentation, or even seasons…? Perhaps you can let the pot settle for a little bit before stirring it again?”