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He was inspired to write again, to portray the windy hills sprinkled with cypress and wild juniper and rows of ram shackled shanties that terraced, rising and falling through the corridors, pretending to be villas.

He came upon a brook, he sat and meditated. The rocks peeked out above the ripples. And they sang to him. The squint of his closed eyes and brow smiled. The spray kissed his arid cheek.

His mind worked like that. Like the scenery and the weather around him. Real things imagined was his way of documenting and transcribing all he had seen and all he hadn't.

William Teague (c) 2013