Bleeding Ink

The sky is a fat slow river of cloud this morning, and I am in the eddy, sheltered from shadow and rain by the high broad shoulders of the Black Mountains. It’s a lovely little phenomenon, that the whole region might be draped in cloud save this one little spot where I live, drenched in light.

Still, the winds are high―I can hear them on the ridges, their howl through the trees, and my page is scattered with fine droplets, blown from the clouds, into this little bit of sunlight, and onto my page. A blessing, perhaps, of cloud-kissed ink.

This is the third day of my moving my writing practice outdoors. My knees and fingers feel the chill the most, right now, and the back of my neck―a vulnerable spot. I should have worn my scarf. Still I can hunker down and say that the bothers of it are wroth it, for in the forest the edges of myself bleed, like the ink now on my page, and all manner of things speak to me―the clouds, held off by the mountain, hurling rain to me; the winds moving through the ridges and down into the glades; the infinitesimally small insect drawn to the bright moon of paper; the curling fronds of moss, a brilliant green, sheltered under oak leaves that once drank the light, but now, wet and brown, reflect it, as if even now they can’t fully relinquish their purpose.

All this―such beauty―exceeds far and beyond the comfort and pleasure of writing in the snug warmth of my home. We must risk our comfort, yes, to feel ourselves bleed into something more than ourselves. A small, infinitesimally small, risk, the barest of sacrifices, for such beauty as a clear sky above, and the rain, tossed from clouds to bleed the ink that is you.

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