The winding forest road from my home ended near this spot. Just a few steps away was a junction to a noisy motorway - to the lives of the masses.
I found a little nook by the forest road, a slight detour made by the feet of Man. As I walked into the nook, the noise was suddenly muffled - sudden, but pleasant. A few crickets were singing, a lizard cocked it’s head, and something stirred within the undergrowth.
I set my easel by a fallen branch. Within an hour, the skies turned dark, and something growled in the far distance. I had to paint quickly, but the light changed so suddenly, it was more about painting from memory and feel than from sight.
Before long, I had to pack and run, more for my painting than for myself. I turned back for one final glance at my little paradise. The leaves were soaked, the branch had darkened, and the crickets were no more, drowned in the song of the rain. But the lizard was still there, still, silent, head cocked towards the rain.
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