where the writers are
A Fall Day

Is there anything I want to say this morning, anything I want to talk about, write about?  I feel a little flat; my fingers are cold as they tap away at the black keys, their chunky sound.  I hear the murmur of the refrigerator blended with the peaceful sound of flute and elongated drum pouring out of the stereo speaker; an occasional squawk from the blue jay.  I’m not ready to begin the day or rather—perhaps I’d like to stay here tapping away, until everything pours out of me that wants to be visible on the page, to reveal to my own self what is there—what is not there, mingled with the sun and the tree braches as they sway ever so slightly in the wind.  It feels like Fall today.

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