Sitting in a room of women whose pens are on fire. As ink dribbles out of mine like a clogged faucet. I warm my hands by their light, will the words to start flowing. No, not will . . . request. Listen for the gurgling, the beginning of precipitation. Wind and ice. How they speak in the presence of others. Trees. Grasses. Sunshine. It’s all about relationship, isn’t it?

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