Slow summer painting

A world of color and hue, 

 a world that remembers the nuance of light and shadow, 

of how darkening waters still send up a glitter,

a spark of sunlight, 

  a world quiet but for birdsong drifting on air . . . 

Sometimes the brush works with you, sometimes not. 

Another layer of paint, 

 scrap back, 

begin again. 

Losing track of time -- is it day or is it night? 

Does it matter? 

Muscles begin to ache,

fingers cramp.

Has it been that long?

Must be.

The body needs time

to adjust,

not to fight the flow,

to corral the brushwork.

Slip aside,

step back,

surrender . .  .