First Workshop at First Writers’ Retreat
Six pens scrawl left to right across the page. Breathing slows and brows furrow. The flag outside sails along the wind's current while the seabird wrestles against roiling waves. My neck is beef jerky. My left shoulder blade's on fire. My heart is soft, and hard and expectant.
Sitting in a circle of creaky chairs full of writers in Duluth
(after James Wright)
In front of me, I see strata of every gray, stillness and suspension, gurgling almost-ocean the base layer. Naked trees show off their nuance, nimble and poised to brave the wind's onslaught. On either side of me, creation unfolds quietly - images I've never met welcome me home. I'm not worthy.