One exquisite poem arose from Williams going about his daily doctoring.  He saw a red wheel barrow in the yard of a patient (back when house calls were typical) and it registered in his gaze.  Much depends upon a handful of words, 16 in fact.

Williams’s poem and the story of the role of his patient — Thaddeus Marshall — ramble about in my head.  What a simple and beautiful lesson.  In looking, there is a small leap in the brain that pays attention and registers a view as important.  Only action turns it into something.  In Williams’s case, he wrote on the back of prescription notes.

In my case, I might pluck a photograph from the pile of old newspapers used for picking up dog poop.  I head out into the backyard with the dogs and give it a second look on the way back through the garage.  I see angles, eyes, mouth, foreground vs. background.

Similarly, I notice a large piece of drywall used to spray paint a bench. Its bluish green with a massive splotch of yellow flashes its message as I go into the house:  Delightful.  Okay to mess up.

Photo + drywall + desire to draw vs. write + a couple of hours = a sketch.
The way her lower jaw holds and exposes her lower teeth reminds me of my dogs when they’re concentrating on being good for a treat or ball.  I feel that clench when writing, anticipating a slow-to-arrive insight.