Rock wall, Black Trail, Canfield Woods, Deep River, CT

My best ideas for writing come when I carry no pen, pad, or recorder. I trudge up a muddy hill. I pick up a branch that fell in the path and fling it off into the leaves. The mud smells like minerals. I’m fighting through an old dialogue with a difficult colleague, or mentally turning around my recipe lists for the coming holidays. I didn’t have time for this walk. I had time for this walk. I should have come earlier. I could have waited until later. I’m wearing the wrong jacket; I’ll get too hot. A flock of geese wobble overhead. They’re never really in a V. A big ledge rock watches over my left side. I’m going to keep going, and soon I’m going to forget about time, however brief that memory lapse may be. That’s when a new idea comes pouring into my head the way water flows into the hole I’ve created by pulling out a stuck log.

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