This One Thing

No one is on the street.

When the sun lights up the air before me it is alive with pollen and dust which settles into the cracks of the asphalt like a golden mend.

I find a log by the creek, eat a couple pieces of toast from a paper sack in my pocket, then paint the forest. The sun shifts the colors as I work. Green and gold trees emerge from black shadows.

When my hands are cold I pack up my paint and walk into the woods where some earnestness finds me in the early angled light. As if all my life my body wanted this one thing: to wake at dawn—to paint trees.

And all this time I’ve been making a nice breakfast instead.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *