sat in the corner writing as if each word saved a life.
The winter morning sun, sharp splendor, demonstrated how it
could conjure a wavy, liquid curtain of shimmering new pennies from
mere strands of brown-red hair that when she suddenly tucked a
recalcitrant lock behind her ear, there, for a moment, a glimmering
stream rerouted and in copper glory shone.
eyes: half cat eye marbles, rays shooting from obsidian pupils,
fanning out subtle jades, snow cloud greys, and blue sprinkles
shining. Pen looping, loopdelooping, on white paper, fast, intense, as
if a certainty of momentous discovery yawned before her mind.
Rushing forward over the ledge of a sparkling waterfall of
perfectly tossed, cascading words, mouth opened in concentration, she
flew, flipped and sped like a determined salmon.
around to my hoot of laughter as I
entered the café, her quick-then–gone focus sighted on my face.
The red-gold splash on my retinas decided what I would
bespangle with words today. The
copperhead writer slithered on down a breathless sentence with her
molten pen. That would be
me soon, I thought.