There she is, at it again, showing off, painting with clouds, as the light changes within seconds, within seconds, my head twists to gather all 180° in, I can’t look away from Aprils’ masterpiece of reflected light, wind and suspended condensation, against the receding horizontal perspective of continually shadow upon shadow of Douglas fir greens. yet, within moments the suns rosy reflection pales the distinctive greens blur to lesser shades, as if someone dragged a pallet knife across the layers, obscuring the depths, the curtain is drawn the moment is over the show closes down A chill sets in the illusion, the props, and the stage has moved West somewhere over islands in oceans now
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