The scratch and swish of pen on paper,

Is wind through creaking trees on an Autumn evening

When the vibrantly colored leaves dance gracefully to the ground

Ink marks embeded into paper fibers flow,

As the small creeks and streams which converge into rivers

And give a drumbeat to the music that the leaves dance to

Lines making letters in sweet ritual,

Like birds caling to one another in the canopy, singing warnings of nightfall

As the last bits of sunlight pierce through the boughs

And as I describe to you this: The image of the forest

In which I am standing, you see it too for you are here as well,

To feel the cool breeze nipping at you, the falling leaves graze across your bare skin

Little do you know, that this forest is of my creation

A small bit of my imagination

All because of pen and paper,

And a a light thought

in which I could

escape.