It’s four in the morning.
Blackness outside the window, peppered by lightning streaking the sky, revealing skeleton trees and lone patches of snow.
Thunder rumbles incessantly in the distance, clearing its throat, mumbling of possible rain showers.
I dreamed restlessly as lightning and thunder negotiated in the dark of night.
In dreams Creativity wrote, wrote, wrote. In half-awake tossing and turnings, words rose like phantoms creating St. Patrick’s Day nattering, full-sprouted paragraphs arising like chattering ghosts, endless talk, talk, talk.