Quiet in the wood. Robins hop from branch to branch. Gently, the branch sways— up down—again—up down and stops. The breeze weaving around the trees pushes plants over. Leaves jostle together. My footsteps odding out of the sounds. Above, raucous rooks haw and caw while landing on branches. Ever so suddenly they take off— each a flapping ink blot across winter’s gray sky— coughing out their caws. Below, little ears listen. Growing and spreading with all the sounds they hear. They listen in every moment, to every creature, every step I take, every crow that haws, constantly.
March 2023
Waxwings
—these men, heading down to the berry bar after a shower and a touch of hair gel on top of their fluffy, feathery heads. Going down with a dollar, hoping to get a fresh juicy berry the size of a bunny’s tail.
Bright Morning
Gouache
