Saturday, November 12, 2005

Edge of the Field
9x12,oil/linen panel
There's nothing like a November sky: brooding, moody, changeable. December skys are: still, clear, silent. But not November. November is a restless month of change. Autumn hanging on, winter pushing in.
The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation:The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer,I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1855, I Celebrate Myself, Line 238

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