The Writing Room

The dark wood of the large pine table in the writing room is scarred from previous life experiences conjuring up memories from the past. There are no drawers beneath or secret compartments on top. It is just a flat pine table with reams of paper stacked along top the length of it without rhyme or reason as to context.

On each piece of paper in each one of the stacks are words: words that draw pictures, words that invoke spells. There are lives on those sheets of paper: lives that quietly wait for someone to wake them. The writing room is tranquil allowing the orange red glow of a new dawn to saturate it’s every corner.

A flock of Seagulls fly up into the crystal light blue sky silhouetted by tinged daybreak, and a coverlet of them cluster along the rocky edge of the surf waiting to bask in the warm sun, well overdue.

There is calmness in this splendor.





While the words belong to me ~
the photograph: Seagulls at Dawn
belongs to Dina Rudick - Boston Globe
.