He denies his voice, keeping his own counsel. A bitter light comes through the window. Outside, colors surge and pulse like a kaleidoscope of butterflies in mystic patterns.
What muse speaks to her son? His hands jerk, fingers fling outward. His head tweaks to the right, always to the right. His mouth moves as if pantomiming a lecture.
She has completed her part. The easel, brushes, and his favorite paints are exactly where he needs them. Does he notice the time passing?
There is never a sign. He picks up a brush, like a delicate instrument, and begins to paint.
Picture is copyright by Jim Green.
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