Feeling it

There's a certain something that sets a writer apart. 

I was having a pleasant evening out with my friends this weekend, celebrating a birthday. We were walking along the river in Exeter, heading for a pub (surprise, surprise), and rounded a corner to a beautiful view - 

A full moon had stopped by to cast its reflection into the river. My friends passed a few comments on how pretty it looked and carried on. But not me. 

This wasn't a moment to waste. I wanted to feel it a little more. 

So I stood there, taking a journey to explore the senses. And was so very rewarded for it. 

I started to notice flitting shapes, dark ghosts in the night. A posse of bats had come to check out this intruder into their midnight world. I felt the breeze from their wings as they wheeled past in a wonderful display of aerobatics. 

A fish broke the water with an echoing splash. And, as if gossping about it, a gang of geese started chattering away to each other. 

A slow muslin mist drifted on the waters, bringing a cool dampness to the calm air. It was the sort of moment to make you breathe deeply. 

Yes, of course I jotted it all down (see golden rules of writing, number whatever - always carry a notebook.)

And all that in just a couple of minutes, and all for simply taking the time. 

That's writers. Where others walk on by, we wait. And where they look, we see. 

And feel.