Once, in the garden of Jack London’s home,

I sat so still thinking of him

that a wren landed on my head

thinking I was a statue, perhaps,

a place to stand and survey the land

for his kind of food, berries or bugs,

while I thought of Jack London –

how he didn’t wait for inspiration

but wrote every day

insisting the words appear on the page,

those stories that ripen as the berries in his garden

as alive as the birds getting ready to feed.

FEWalls