Scribble

Sunday, May 03, 2026

Good morning, Twfw. O/

Cool, peaceful, Spring Sunday morning in early May.

A good day for reflection, for reading, for building a nest in a pine tree.

Well... the downy woodpecker down the street thinks so. The percussive baps of beak to bark are sonorous rhythmic blips heard in Science Fiction submarine films... an underwater Morse Code message to the morning.

The wind waves hello with tree branch arms with Spring blooms for jewels on each finger.

When your work is in The Creative Arts the materials necessary to do the work are more than can be measured with numbers and scales.

Every morning with the sunrise I sit and do the same Scientific exercise. Scribble lines on an E-ink screen. That's a constant in this experiment. The other constants are place and person... me in this same chair at dawn.

How are the scribbles so vastly new every morning? What changed? Me?

Despite the 'poet' tag, I'm a calm, cool, and collected guy.

So what in The World is new?

What filters through me that wants expression?

The World travels in waves. We whirl around our Sun like dogs born with their heads out car windows to catch the breeze.

What's in that breeze always flown at us? What stirs and changes to keep Life alive?

We travel in cars and forget we're moving. We live on a sphere traveling hundreds of thousands of miles per hour.

How's the ride?

The Earth is a huge sphere like a cauldron of witch's brew. The Sun is the master witch spinning it around. We're all ingredients mixing and matching up to make the star's magic potion called Life.