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I lean forward in anticipation as the master picks up his pen and begins his work. Lightly, with quick, even strokes he begins. Under his hand, I begin to see a flat, dusty place, devoid of life, silent, eerie.
As I watch, rolling hills emerge covered in sagebrush and cacti. The wind swirls dust plumes across the desert dunes. In the distance, a horse and rider begin to emerge.
He moves his pen with swift determination, sketching the scene with steady hand. A house of adobe with a wooden swing on the covered porch emerges. Slowing, he stops to contemplate, and then carefully molds the figures under the porch’s shade. Indolent, lazy, self-satisfied persons come into view.
He stops and checks the flow of ink in the pen, considers a moment, and begins again. The horse and rider emerge from the dusty landscape, and surprise those watching with the lithe beauty and grace of their movements.
As the words flow from his pen, I am drawn into the story and his characters become real and living individuals grappling with real problems and overcoming to grow stronger in strength and character, leaving me in awe of his handiwork.
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