Inky bowels

The page was empty; crisp white like untouched snow, silently awaiting the pen that would crawl across it’s surface and leave behind a trail of letter-rich prints. Anticipation made the carbon sheet quiver; its fate was still unknown. Sometimes the pen spilt it’s inky bowels in aggressive streaks.. like the path of a bear dragging it’s prey. Or sometimes the markings brought life, like robin footprints joyfully scattered on winter ground. The paper had no say. In unashamed nakedness it lay, waiting to be dressed by the author’s hand, in whatever garments he saw fit for that day.