Writing is a secret river
Stumbling upon it, hot and confused, there is no option.
And nothing so inviting as the sweet, shocking, slow-motion jump
Into it's crystal clarity.
Never more alive, catching breath, in the secret river.
To the privilege.
Remember to breathe.
Some days, sit beside it.
Some days, wade in and watch.
Study it's true colours, steal insight, but in the end. Leap.