Today's light is flat, the sky a formless grey sheeting the landscape in vaguely misty stillness.
The sleepy trees stand unmoved in windless air, relaxed roots splayed as roughly circular Corvid feet, knots of bitter knuckles splayed amid spring green grass ready to tense and grapple fistfuls of soft fleshy earth, an anchored response to unexpected gusts.
From these platforms thrust defiant trunks, fat dark lines that feed finer capillaries of inky scribble which hang inverted in clumps of meaning in a vacuum of space, dashed, careful, slow grown and thoughtfully haphazard on smooth off white parchment, knots of asemic writing that speak of defiance and welcome to hard air and feathered wing.
With a nonspecificity of growth comes a natural void of meaning, a challenge of gaps left for us to fill in and interpret. I like that.
