Painter prances about the meadow under a sky smothered in overcast and envious of the powerful blue fluent in Picasso’s phase. He stoops and ensnares a daylily inside a staring contest, breeze flinches the perennial’s petals and they clap together like a wink.
“Haah!” Painter exclaims. “Gotcha.”
He picks a petal from the flower, covers his right eye with it and peers up toward the sun.
“I’ll go blind in one eye and use this as an organic eye patch…still organic tissue…it’ll be splendid.” He says.
Painter views a human profile, outfitted in black like a shadow stationed in the distance.
‘Do shadows have names separate from their owners?’ He ponders. ‘This shadow appears to have escaped their owner….’
A grasshopper leaps onto his pant leg, he swipes at it, the insect avoids his jab and latches to his forearm, crawls to his elbow and hops to the ground. He looks for the profile again, but it has vanished. He puts the sun on his back and his shadow grows before him.
‘…but my own shadow keeps the words…to himself. A mute profile has no name….to…give…’
He drops the petal, a strong gale stays it afloat as it tumbles away, over the grass, weeds and his shadow.