Words at the washing line

Bright, light. I emerge from my dark winter haven into the beneficence of sun, the stalk of the leafless dogwood still flaming red, a bird arcing and dipping in the coyly blue sky. I hang the family’s laundry on the washing line and keep my eyes on the sky. Then words appear all together like invisible ink made clear, a section of my novel, the character of a story, I see and hear them. I run back into the house to jot down the words, leaving the wash basket in the bright air.

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