The pen power

A yellow and black butterfly the size of my hand flits by. My pen records its brief appearance. A gentle breeze stirs the air around me and my pen takes note. I hear children playing down the street, and my pen scribbles the sounds across the page.

The sun goes behind a cloud, then peeks out again but I’m not looking at the sky. I know this because of the shadow of my pen that follows the in and out dance with the sun.