Dry Ink

At times I sit between the trees Pen and paper on my knees I look for something new not old I search for story never told Between the branches squirrels leap While near my feet critters creep I wait to hear the special sound Of story falling to the ground Leaves they move and dance with rest Sun moves too, towards the west I look to see what letters form A quiet tale or one of storm Suns did set and birds would flock Days they pass and months still clock Then they came, words from the sky But alas, alas, my quil was dry