Theres something sexy about a paddle that never leaves the water on returning from a J-stroke, the way it quietly slices and floats forward. The clicking Morse of crickets flick their Bics at the quiet the paddle mumbles out the sides of its lips, and I feel, as the artist does, pressing against her palette and panel, back and forth, moving forward through the life of a piece of art.
the day wheezing through the trees
that cackle and creek like the slosh of tide against hull
pine cones thumping
The rustle of light
and trot of curious ants
against reddening skin
the guttural rant of Plovers articulating lust.
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