Once upon a time there was a tall white pine overlooking my path down to the shore of Grand Traverse Bay. It came down in a big storm last year, but the stump remains. It is a big stump, half my height, a couple of feet across.
The sap that bled from the cut pooled at the edge, whitened, cracked, sealed to itself whatever fell there, or dared to cross it.
I am fanciful. I saw patterns that might be ancient rivers, islands, lakes, or the surface of Mars. At the edge was the world I sketch when I doodle. There are always grasses, a stump or two, and water. Here there are birds, too, wading birds, and branches, and flowers. All sorts of things. It must be a marsh. A little cropping, a judicious application of the rudimentary editing software, and we have Dawn in the Marsh.
A person who should be writing but is sick of writing and wants nothing more than to forget the writing for the moment keeps playing with the software. Now it is Evening in the Marsh.
Over there, on the other side of the stump, there is another painting. This one is of 19th century hunters. They are probably Civil War veterans. They’ve spotted me. I suppose that means I must go back to the writing.
Soooo . . . play a little. Then write, paint, sculpt, photograph, compose . . . create.