You were made to scale the mountains
But you must write.
You were knit together to undo the hearts of humankind
But you must write today the drudgery and details of a thing.

This morning I write just for the practice.

I am hunched over a tray table in a window seat, looking down over the expanse of a flat Texas. There's no burning thought to flesh out with ink, no idea lobbed onto my heart that's bursting to get out. My only thoughts, really, are for my boys, all three of them. I've been away for three and a half days and that's too long this time.