Peter Burt

O, Wind Thru Open Window Peter Burt

In the darkness of the morning, a whistle in the pines drew me from my dreams, forcing me out of the comfort of bed, down to the dining room table to the paints and pencils left from the afternoon before. Dawn was winning over the stars to the East, blowing darkness westward, leaving an empty space for day to fill. The wind hurried past chasing the starlight, inviting me to come along. With my pen filling the emptiness of the page, my eyes traveled as far as the horizon, my soul sailed away, validating its journey with scratches across the page.