sketch

He sits, his back to a tree.

Eyes darting, pen hovering over unmarked page.

An ant crawls over his leg.

He doesn’t notice.

Glancing at the swirling river, he presses his pen to the page.

And he draws.

He draws the girl on his left, perched on a rock.

He draws the pattern the boils of the river make, grasping at some point, downstream, invisible.

He draws the bird calling behind him, picturing its form hidden in the trees.

The tree. Himself. The rocks littering the bank of the river.

The jet cutting clouds above him, preceding by a 4-count its soul-shaking rumble.

The cloud shaped like a whale (if you squint just right).

The shadow of the thistle outlined in the rocky soil.

The sapling, pushing against the stones at his feet. He lifts his pen.

Maybe tomorrow he will sketch the rest.

Maybe next week.

Maybe not ever.