The Writer

It is Saturday morning. Everything is still. The birds sit still and sing-song softly in the trees across the lawn. The wind whispers a worn, whistled tune. I have come to know and love this melody. It comforts me in the morning. I open my eyes and see the white waste of the ceiling. This room is too big, I am lost in it.  My toes curl on the cold concrete of the floor. I stand. I look down and I see my feet moving. I am at the old pine desk that stands in the corner at the foot of the bed.  I sit. There is a sudden quickening, a quiet quivering that unfolds within, that in silence spreads until my whole being is an answer to a question I did not know I had asked. I see my hands moving, pen, paper, tremulous tentative, then steady scribble. I see the words form: “It is Saturday morning.”