A little study of light and shadow and observation. Colors that create shape. A horse that carries story.
And this little Say's Phoebe. This mighty little bird.
They were here last year, the Phoebes, building a nest in my porch, the female leaving her nest every time I went out my door, until I finally stopped using the front door so as to not disturb her.
Such is the way that I can live when I have deer and birds and foxes as neighbors.
The little nestlings sitting like mummies in their home. Small relics, their big, black eyes staring, fooling me into thinking that they were, perhaps, not alive.
And then, random moves. Change. Small shifts. Just enough to begin a story.
Same as the paint. As line, curving and changing.
And what was not a life,
Not a beginning,
Just a color,
Became a story.
A flight.
A friendship.
And when the birds left their nest, as they do, they lived in my little decripit courtyard,
learning to fly and find food,
calling to their mom as she brought them insects,
and alighting on my open windows and singing.
So little, so quiet, but if you look and listen, you will see them.
*And, if you're curious, they are back again, in the same nest, refreshed for this spring with new grass and horse hair, with five little eggs this year. And, once again, the front door is off limits until they fly.
And this little Say's Phoebe. This mighty little bird.
They were here last year, the Phoebes, building a nest in my porch, the female leaving her nest every time I went out my door, until I finally stopped using the front door so as to not disturb her.
Such is the way that I can live when I have deer and birds and foxes as neighbors.
The little nestlings sitting like mummies in their home. Small relics, their big, black eyes staring, fooling me into thinking that they were, perhaps, not alive.
And then, random moves. Change. Small shifts. Just enough to begin a story.
Same as the paint. As line, curving and changing.
And what was not a life,
Not a beginning,
Just a color,
Became a story.
A flight.
A friendship.
And when the birds left their nest, as they do, they lived in my little decripit courtyard,
learning to fly and find food,
calling to their mom as she brought them insects,
and alighting on my open windows and singing.
So little, so quiet, but if you look and listen, you will see them.
*And, if you're curious, they are back again, in the same nest, refreshed for this spring with new grass and horse hair, with five little eggs this year. And, once again, the front door is off limits until they fly.
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