The roaring sound of cicada tymbals has noticeably quieted. The next generation of periodical cicadas is young and silent. After hatching from eggs laid in trees, they will fall to the ground and tunnel into the earth, where they will live in darkness for years. These days it is the lightning bugs who are putting on a show.
The roaring sound of cicada tymbals has noticeably quieted. The next generation of periodical cicadas is young and silent. After hatching from eggs laid in trees, they will fall to the ground and tunnel into the earth, where they will live in darkness for years. These days it is the lightning bugs who are putting on a show.
A merlin preened on a branch of a skeletal tree, contorting its body into all sorts of interesting positions as it tidied and fluffed its feathers with its beak and talons. Far away, in the distant overcast sky, the chatter of two crows sounded. Two black spots flew into view. And they saw the merlin.
I catch a glimpse of water. It is not obvious. An abundance of plant life hides most of the water, which becomes clearer as I continue down the trail. I walk right up to an open gate. The ominous entrance frames a low bridge with dark water and tolerant plants on either side. Beyond the bridge is a boardwalk in the sunshine. I walk through the gate.
As an artist, I spend a lot of time putting pencil marks and brush strokes onto paper and canvas as I create artworks. Hours, days, weeks, and months easily roll by. So much work needs to take place between drawing an initial sketch and calling an artwork “finished.” The stopping point is often undefined and located at the end of a very distant horizon.
