The sound of a butterfly moving its wings from across the garden can only be heard if I am looking at it. Calls of birds are dots or swipes or long triangles, hooked at the end, loud and large or tiny and grey. Some wood has bears in it. Birds leave traces of their presence in the air. Pinot kombucha smells purple. Ideas wonƒ’t leave , they only transform, hanging out in the ceiling of my studio, waiting to be caught. Songs hang in the air like dreams, or like light, or like dandelion fluff right when the sun sets over a golden field. Rabbits live a soft and quiet life, loving the smell of green and the world. A bird passes by. A bird. A bird. A bird.

I try to put it down somewhere. On canvas. On paper. On wood. To catch the glow of a sudden ringing note. The deep indigo of a cello. The edge of water and a raucous cacophany of sound. I try to remember. I try to keep and catch that moment. It slips by, leaving only a trace. A memory. A dab of watercolour on the end of a brush. The smell of oil paint and lavender lingering in the air. Oil pastels smeared on my fingers. And a painting. Waiting.