|A Broad Stroke of Blue Overhead|
|The Ground is a Thirsty Beast|
|Limb and Wing Blend|
|Bird Houses Need Repair|
A broad stroke of sky overhead urges me on, and I dip my brush.
Stepping lightly across my canvas, I'm the artist entering the art. The ground is a thirsty beast, gulping all the snow that will melt. It's covered in soggy barnacles of dog poop and though I want to gaze into blue skies like a lover returned, I have to watch each sodden step.
Birds click and chitter with the song of new canvas. I dab blue among the spruce needles, attempting to separate limb from wing.
A flock of birds hops across the bottom right of the frame and if I squint, collectively they move like a blue shadow performing ariels above died hulls of seeds. Oregon juncos, I'm sure, but they tumble faster than I can paint.
Blue-gray bird-houses tip away from screws beginning to unthread. Like prison towers they guard the soppy pools of my garden. Even the fence posts lean like dead stalks of mustard.
Blue here, blue there, yet I want to paint all the bird-houses yellow and peach.