The Crumpled Clue

I perched above a writer’s chair,
And watched him pull his tangled hair.
His fingers flapped and waved about,
As if he’d lost a wrestling bout.

No sign announced, I’M MAD TODAY.
No banner fluttered in windy display.
Yet papers flew from left to right,
Like startled pigeons taking flight.

His forehead folded, line-by-line,
Like plowed-up rows of twisted vine.
The page before him stayed as still
As winter ponds beyond the hill.

A dozen paper balls on the floor below
Told more than words could ever show.
They gathered on his desk in heap after heap,
Covering the surface like a flock of wooly sheep.

Now here’s the thing I’ve come to see
From watching folks below my tree:
Great stories don’t explain or shout.
They leave clues for readers to find out.

So if you want your stories to sing,
Don’t be labeling every little thing.
Let actions speak and gestures tell.
Your readers will connect them well.

I fluffed my feathers on the sill,
Quite pleased to be observing still.
For every writer ought to learn
How subtle clues make pages turn.