We sat on the rivers edge watching birds descend in a seconds time from the railing of the bridge inaccessible by man, elevated 30 feet or so (a measurement I use quite often and am always corrected with the metric conversion), yawning their wings out wide as their feet web to receive the impact of the water before they dive into the northern flowing current.
Each creates a wake more powerful than the man powered motors of wooden boats docked at junctions where resident’s backyards edge up against the waterline, and they wade towards the closest patch of fallen leaves where something they so desire rests below the surface. As if hunting for evidence at a crime scene they scour each area with such precision that I’m sure no life goes undetected and no belly unfed before they move to the next.
“They are two men and one girl, and they young,” JB tries his hand at English.
“How do you know?”
“The color, if you look the white.”
I try to imagine the delicate intricacies of their patterns and the time it would take to render it’s precision, but flutter my eyes at the daunting realization of the task, deciding instead to admire it in its totality.
I silenced and revisited a growingly common thought I’ve recognized in my time spent painting here – that sometimes it’s a greater art to receive beauty than to try to create it.