I stared at the water. It accumulated in a crevice in a rock, then rolled over the dip onto a leaf. The leaf, green and lush from spring’s recent arrivel, took the water gladly, but could not hold onto it because of its waxy surface. The water slid down the leaf, accumulating at the the pointed tip, and then it dripped off. The drop, like a tear for winter’s passing, sliced through the air, quick, swift, and landed on my cat’s shoulder. Lesti, my three year old calico, gave a disgruntled meow and rolled over, out of the way of the dripping menace. She yawned lazily, and batted at my brown hair. I sat cross legged in the freshly cut grass, my back was arched over, writing. I had recieved a journal for my birthday two days ago, and this was the 39th entry since then. My parents knew that I wanted to be a writer, and as an aspiring author, I needed all the practice I could get. After I finished my entry, I sketched the rock, leaf, and my cat. I looked up at the sky. Would the world be ready for me and my words?