The difficulties of writing

Every once in a while, as I attempt to get down what is up here -points to head- I feel like I'm writing in syrup. Not exactly writer's block but a frustration that up here, won't communicate with down there -points to fingers- (Don't ask just suspend belief folks). Communication is at the crux of what writer's do.

with that in mind here is an excerpt from a piece I am working on, (syrup and all).

   I could see the fields now, laid out in neat patches, nature’s Sunday best. Here and there a square of deeper green would be revealed, like new skin grafted onto old. I saw no trees, just grass and worn fences. The dust caused by the lorry seeped into the blue sky turning it reddish brown. The air was heavy and it was all I could do to lift my head and follow a bird as it rose, squawking, higher and higher until I felt it must surely run out of oxygen and plummet to earth.  I remained watching while it vanished from view, a speck so small that the eye would blink and fool the mind into thinking nothing was there.

As I said sometimes it's so easy others, not so. But then when I hit a good patch, the not so becomes just so. Now if only these fingers would communicate with this brain.