The constant flicker of shadow and light on my work table
like being under water and looking up.
The dry crinkle of leaves as they bounce off of each other on their way to the ground
The clank of the loose chain on the gate keeping a steady beat
The gentle wave of cars on Route 22
On the hill across the road,
a nagging chainsaw
the crash and thunder of a tree falling.
Bud’s high, clipped yap muffled through the back wall of my studio
The wind, soft like water, comes into my studio by the open door and makes my curtain dance
It brings inside
the sweet, damp-earth smell
of outside
While I sew together red on red on red…
