Restless.

It's three am. The moon has finally kissed the garden. She is full and dripping with promise. I have bits of twig, moss, and spider webs in my hair from the last forty five minutes tracking Winston, the terrier dog through the woods. Obsessive little beast guards the garden with a zeal that can only be admired. Even when a small part of me would like to shake him from sleep deprivation. Tonight's point of focus was a smallish opossum who was after the compost. Winston will track and try to kill whatever the beast du jour is for hours. Relentless. And if he can't kill it he will bark until he summons someone who can. Which is me. Except since I don't have a gun toting farm boy or girl to run to anymore, I just track him, grab him, and lock him in my bedroom. So what does a girl do after an adrenaline fused jaunt through the woods after a determined beast? She writes. She writes because she must. It's like the need for water or air. She writes because she told Christina she'd jump on the challenge of one post every day for thirty days. I guess my thirty days begin now. She writes because all day, every day, the words jostle around in her head like restless companions, and there are bits and pieces scribbled on scraps, in the notes in her phone, the computer, whatever serves in the stolen moments to get the words out, to set them free. She writes because she is a writer. And this is what we do.