Columbia River. The gate to the observation point was closed but we snuck in anyway. Here I am working hard at growing wings.
The water in the river stands still, almost sluggish from cold. I oddly want to dive and pierce it. But then I would be a writer no more but a dead floating log.
Don't these hills make you think someone foul lives there and looks out at you, salivating? Brrrr...
And the grasses show no interest in wordly affairs. They're content with being grasses. No books to write, no creative blocks to worry about. I'm jealous.