Something is bothering the sheep, across Lake Forsyth.

The magpies herald the artist's presence as she sets up to paint.

The remarkable power of nature.

Grandmother flies overhead posed as a heron in the artist's heart.
She feels her here.
Over the distance of death, removing 'the far gaze,' she sits and does what she loves without disagreements.
Down to the ground, out toward the sea, she sees with awe, mankind's silence.
There is no melancholy in submitting to the sacred parts that do not need her.
She craves them in her body of mostly water; her, the lake, the blue ocean.
Look, what's there?
Where?
What was that?
I don't know, let's look some more--and,
LISTEN,
HEAR that RHYTHM--that
hum the earth does where it meets
the waters like two lovers copulating without a single reservation in sight.
She hears drums!
Yes, they are the drums and she their tones, the past is gone.
Mixed with dusty stuff from crawling, walking, swimming, running, genuflecting, agitating, she hides in the wood without a muse because Dante owns her, too.
She's not sure where she came from, or,
what her worth might be in a system that measures her buttocks with their hands, or worse--in their minds and on the tip of their tongues: she is a witch.
Switching her consciousness to remain a pacifier, a bridge, a strong wind comes, and then, total calm--she remains.
Painting her sacred places.