I write. My words spill over pages – scrawled words, jotted down hastily; poems pencilled into notebooks; my daily words, sandwiched between first drafts and shopping lists. Endless lists.

I write in clinic. I’m not going to sit over a keypad while you talk to me. I write in meetings, to keep my monkey hands occupied. I write on the chalkboard at home. Give me an appointment, and I’ll write it on the calendar. I’m analogue, me, as well as digital. More analogue than digital, maybe. Sometimes I’ll write a word just for the pleasure of shaping it.

hawk rides the clear air
earth is a map beneath her
waiting to be read

Kim is keeping the dVerse bar, and asking us to write a haibun about handwriting. Is it a dying art? Well, mine is neither dying, nor an art…