And now, while observing, it is the birds talking in the cadence of the moment. Or is it someone I’ve lost that I carry moving me on? A harkening reminder that we are only briefly here. Don’t forget to fly. Hear it? I tilt my head up and squint at the sun. What stories live here in the rich stillness before I stand in the bigness of it all, deeply inhale and get on with my day.

Every morning I watch the birds. They come and swing on the ends of limbs then drop down to visit me, softening my heart. Preparing me for the day. There is a longing in their song. A language that echoes across the years and I can almost hear the slow glacial retreat of life taking place and grasp at its frailty, its sweet brilliance. Feeding, tending, migrating, sharing the roots that communicate silently like synapses they join me in the studio and are at the foundation of this new series I've titled, The Language of Birds. 

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48 x 60" oil on linen, 2020