Writing is like dreaming while my eyes are still awake. My brain drifts out at sea like it has been caught in the oily waves of my canvased art. My mind is sailing towards an island of thoughts that is always shifting and the shore is soaked by a tide of inky graphite lapping at my feet. A jungle of words and metaphor is clumped at the island’s core; trees morph at will and invisible creatures scurry in the brush. I cannot help but venture in; a lonesome cardinal’s song whistles from its center. I do not know why a cardinal has chosen to hide himself in the middle of my mind, but he is startling shades of red and I guess that is what this red bird is designed to do.