If I were a songwriter, I’d sit outside and the birds would create a rhythm that the rustling trees would percuss. 

If I were a songwriter, I’d feel the sun warming the denim over my legs and think about how it must be the way a snowflake feels when it hits the warm ground, slowly spreading out across it’s girth.

If I were a songwriter, I’d noodle on the guitar and him little melodies along with the neighbor’s dog who barks in the distance.

If I were a songwriter, I’d know the sound of the color of the forsythia on a bright spring morn.