Quiet Stream

To the river, to the stream, to the flow of imagination—this is where I go when the world quiets and I find myself all alone.

Hummingbirds flit by, monsters dip a toe in chilly waters, I dance with ancestors long gone yet so near, listening to heartbeats in the far off distance.

No pretense or presumptions reside in this forest, just the stream of my consciousness, the muse, and an utter lack of feral fear and trepidation.

Paintbrushes dabble of their own accord, dapple grey mares morph into seahorse revelations, numbers can speak—telling wild, numeric stories.

The best is when there’s paper and pen or a laptop or smartphone near by—these are the times when I capture my moment lost in the quiet stream.