It is that Grendel time of year. Into the forest of essays, thick with quotes from meadhall to mere, I become mired in words. October sun collapses into torrents of rain. Mud-sodden, the land grabs at our feet. We stand before the roots of a tree, looking for the little lost monster hanging between two limbs. Mysteries of meaning soak the ground. Beowulf’s ice-bound boat delays the hero.
I wander into the green unknown, counting words as I go.