It is here, in the smallest of things where a trees breath glimmers, twinkles itself to death. Exhale. Whats that noise ? Can you hear it ? Its only the wind you say. I raise my face, ready to run headlong, as usual. Giddy. There, see, look up my cushie-doo. Hundreds and hundreds maybe more, bird bones whoosh so close their feathers shiver my skin.
I laugh.
dominique cameron 
I like the painting. The text I do not understand but it feels a bit frightening and scary.
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Hi , thanks for your comment. The text refers to an encounter with an enormous flock of birds in the woods. It was scary but beautiful and I laughed at being fooled by the sound. What I thought was a rush of wind turned out to be something quite other. A place of unexpected meetings.
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I thought the reference to bird bones and feathers was metaphorical but now I understand, Your work is so beautiful and it is clear that you love to explore the unexamined – which has many surprises especially when you are on your own in isolated locations.
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