Watercolor Writing, Nov 05

Watercolor writing is a long, drawn-out brushstroke inspired by sunset. This early November evening the sky is whistling variety. The tips of trees are touched lightly by a falling sun this early evening. The yellow sun is doing a painting circled by no more than a full ring of big sky, of which I feel a dot in the center, a drop of watercolor spreading free in a colored sunset—pinks, greens, reds, violet, browns, whites, blues, everything is merging into the deep full moon color, into some indescribable tone of burgundy purple. The longer and longer shadows have turned to nighttime dirt. An owl hoot-hoots, a nuthatch churns out its last upside-down song. The sky and the shadows have now almost touched, there is just a little thin line of golden sunlight between the two and then an alpenglow casts a halo over all. I think to myself, as Friedrich Nietzsche wrote, truly the world is “a work of art that gives birth to itself.”