Last drawing.

Charcoal on paper .

Swathes of wild garlic have turned the woodland floor emerald. A red squirrel bounces from tree to tree. The water is high in the burn, the current pushing against my legs as I wade across. For a few moments the sun comes out turning fallen beech leaves golden. A dead crow, its wings outstretched. A small creeping plant has leaves the colour of newborn mice, the sort of pink that is vulnerable, pulsing. I paint but my heart is failing. The wind picks up the paper and it hits me in the face. Maybe its time to call it a day. Washing my brushes in the burn I drop one and watch it float downstream. I pack up and walk back along the track, pausing to draw my way home.