They lower the ropes deep, deep into the well until they hear the ripples on the surface, and they dip their bucket until it’s fully submerged, and then they pull. They heave, hand over hand, raising the heavy-laden vessel, to the brim and overflowing, until it meets daylight, and they hold it out, spilling over, so we can drink.
And they quench our parched lips with their words yet leave us longing another sip, like hot tea that warms from the inside out but still makes us thirst for more.
And with delicate tools they etch images on the sheer panels of our minds so we see them when we close our eyelids and then open, looking for more. And they paint with brushes dipped in emotion and truth, landscapes and portraits worthy of museum display, and we stand and stare and soak it in.
They are the writers.
And we are grateful.