As I walk by the river, nothing in particular on my mind, thoughts come seeping in. Words bubble up and I write them down in my head or scribble them onto the backs of receipts. Sometimes I draft them into my mobile phone or onto blank pages I have carried in my pocket for this purpose.
Yesterday, when my writing frenzy was over, I realised that I had walked a kilometre or so completely unaware of my surroundings. The river, trees, birds, sunshine and other walkers had all receded. But even with this fresh awareness, I then proceeded to write again in my head about this very thing, so insidious are those words in their need to escape. I caught myself in the act and gently allowed the offending words to melt away. I returned to the moment.
Ah, the song of the bird.