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I have discovered something I never expected. Actually more to the point, something I had forgotten. The hills West of Austin are beautiful. I have been freelance editing this past week, and the drive into the city from where I live unfolds like a green blanket laid over a rolling bed-top of limestone. Spring now is burgeoning and the various verdant hues are popping from leaf buds like they are squeezing out from within the tree branches like Play-Doh. Hints of wildflowers are looming, and it feels like every patch of grass around here is about to burst with vibrant color.

I’ve also found a secluded park (in Austin called a “Greenbelt”) near the house with a creek dividing it in two. Covered in primitive, but well kept trails, this greenbelt is a wonderful place to hike or just sit by a babbling stream. Yesterday I went there with a notebook and just sat for an hour by this great little brook and wrote some poetry. I think, after all is said and done, that this place will do wonders for my writing. Nothing in the environment in Los Angeles inspired me. The mountains were nice, but there was nothing striking or beautiful about them to me. Near the stream is a hollow that felt like the thumbprint of God. A small depression in the dirt that is filled with budding Bluebonnet sprigs. I’m definitely going to be checking back to see them unfold. I’ll also be taking some photos next time.

There was also a mystery in this greenbelt that is definitely worth investigating. It might become an article I might pitch to a magazine, or at the very least become a source of inspiration for a fiction story. We’ll see.

I’m still searching for a steady job, though I admit the freelance thing is nice. But it is simultaneously worrisome, only because I have to be on the lookout for the next gig. I’m almost done with the freelance work I’m doing now, and I’m hoping it will pan out into future projects. I’ll simply enjoy my nature walks and the afternoon rambles with my wife. Most especially though, I’m loving the soft thumps of my daughter’s hand pressing against the inside of my wife’s growing belly.

I’ll have some new poems up soon.