Same hawk, sitting low on the old swamp birch where they can’t see him–nor did I. The unexpected; they look and feel for shadows in the sky, even on the damp cloud mornings like today.
A lesson in the story. Instruction from the natural to the sublime. My thinkings and worry lately on not the writing of the language, but the story that isn’t there. My flaw, the lack of interest, conflict; the missing story via cutting edge of twisting normal into not.
Taught, but stubbornly resisted, or maybe not within my realm as yet. My need, my goal now: to look for the unexpected, the kink, the glitch.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology