Sculptor in Clay
I leave the sunny path, push past the thickets and brambles, and enter the world of sun dappled and dark. Listen to the scolding squirrel and warning caw of the crow. Wander. Step over the rotted log. Taste the dampness in the air. Wonder. Dig into the leaf mold past the moss and mushroom, into the primeval loam. Smell the earth. Find the clay. Feel it squish and ooze between my fingers. With It I fashion the things I've seen and imagined, into the three dimensional canvas onto which I paint.