I give myself fresh air. Walk. Paint. Strive to see pattern and sense in things. Composition, erratic.

At the base of the foothill the trail runs out. Silence ends, bursts with noise. The stream bubbles all around what is small, glides over what is large. Disruption rages. Strain, relaxed. It finds the way, ready so; clear, spirit applied.

With a small palette and brush in hand, I retouch my painting. The remaining half smooth, shallow, me in the water, solid center among paler colors: an anchor. 

Spring green teased out of blue.


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