The Journey of Now

by Jen King

            The dandelion, one of thousands.  Arching it’s back.  The bee making it’s way to each mane in turn, in time. Feather soft scratching and rustling of the crisp multihued grasses playing against each other.  Heated earth and sun warmed mint.  The scent of time punctuated by the sweet sharp smell of now.

            Unseen eddies hugging the cliffs and breaking free.  Danced upon by the ebony hawk and the storm grey gull.   The roar and whisper weaving through the pines and scouring the sand, carrying the atonal melodies of the winged, plaited into a chorus. 

            Rippling water of gradient blue edged with lace of marbled white, skimmed by an arc of pelicans.  A crashing deluge.  The cascading heartbeat of the sea.

            Stones.  Silent sentinels.  Stonehenge of the sea.  Home to the rose billed cormorants.  Landmarks to those at play in the deep below.          

            Mists of fairies and lost time. Flying. Breathing in and out, enveloping, shrouding. Leaving only ghosts in shadows. 

            The bee and the wind.  The water, mist and stone.  In moment and place, this is my world. 

To be a writer is to suspend time, to step out of the now into ourselves bringing others on our journey.  The muse that is the song of OWP has shown me that the journey of becoming a writer begins not with a map, but with desire and companions, and sweat.