Chinese garden. A walk to an import store. A tree with cloth tied around it, like a poem.
Reflection of the clouds in the side of a building. A crowd. A chain saw and a tree no longer. Watching. Watching. Glimpse. Taken in, translated. Fast forward. Home tonight painting, as if all that appears on canvas is from a well deeply hidden inside of my being. Paint here, no here. This color. Now Listen. Listen.