An orange sunset reflected in a weathered, white framed window of an old brick farmhouse. I raise my camera and snap a reference to nourish the poem forming in my head. Fleeting, is the image before me. The dark interior adds mystery to my poem as I let shadows swallow the scene that holds me. Polished glass is the stage for the setting sun and the dancing leaves of the cottonwoods. Frozen in space, I wait for the curtain to fall. Walking to the car I glance back in hopes of a second act or an encore, I open my car door with an air of melancholy.
A deer darts past me adding to the day of wonder. His white tail flies over the lush greens of the gooseberry bushes and disappears into the growing black shadows across the road. My trophy from my morning efforts greets me with a smile from the passenger seat, fending off the oncoming darkness. Leaving the stand of cottonwoods, the road takes me to a vista view. The kind the Midwest is known for. Crunching gravel beneath the tires sounds as the car slows to a stop. In the distant black, angus graze below a rich, blue ever deepening sky. Stars take to the new stage before me as a choir of grass creatures harmonize, pulling me from the car. Birds looking for a cozy place to take in the night performance, dart about. Two poems fight for tomorrow's canvas as new colors replace the reds and oranges of the window poem.
With cold, spicy chili, sitting on the back porch I review the day, making notes in color and with words I plan out my studio time.
