The sound wraps around the sky and surges in blue tangled webs of water into the edges and crevices of the pier, the vision, the whispering silence, the blue waves, the white caps, the flowing fish beneath the soul. A boat bumps onto weathered wood planks and a gull calls and a night sits impatiently on the edge of the land waiting for the sun to drift into a cloud and hide. Yet always be there. And here. And voices become whispers in brief time like drops of water from a cloud that disappear into air and water. And we all dissolve. Yet remain.
Acylic on canvas. Scene of a Seattle pier on a late afternoon.