Creation

There is a white surface, to begin with.
But white cannot stand alone, and soon black joins it; black ink, smooth and dark and in a slightly curved line. Connected to the line is a pen and connected to the pen is a hand. There are indentations running through the skin, waterless rivers eroded by time and experience and work. Follow the arm up and up, over the shoulder and still upwards, and you will find the face. There is a crease in the space between the eyebrows; the features are intent on the hand and the pen and the ink. Even in concentration, the shadows of a smile twitch the corners of the mouth.
         The man’s mastery of his craft is evident in the unbroken focus and the greyness of his hair. He dances the pen over the paper.
But he is not perfect.
The dance stops.
The pen falls, abandoned.
The hand reaches, reaches for a new connection. Softness on the fingertips; a seam, a brim. He pulls the hat over his hair and waits for inspiration to sink into him.
There is a white surface, to begin with. White with a lonely black line, Slowly, slowly, the pen dances it a partner.