Swing in the Willows

Everyone else was up by the studio obediently painting buildings and streets. I headed back to the park. Once there, however, the scene seemed as drab as a tube of raw sienna that never met Charlie Hunter.  So I kept walking along the lake and through the trees,  past the stucco condos and an empty aluminum boat rack. Then I saw the trees: massive willows with branches dangling toward the water and slow dancing in the breeze. Beneath one was an old tire swing, swaying in the dappled light, as to remembered laughter. So I stopped and started to paint, quickly falling outside myself into the scene,  its rhythms and curves. I was yanked from my reverie by a shout and a growl behind me, and a small gruff woman with a big rough pit bull came stomping and straining toward me.  I stepped aside and gave them my best de-escalation smile, and both she and the dog paused. She considered my painting and the pit bull sniffed at the forgotten sandwich in my pack. I am not sure what she imagined this "trespassing on private property," might entail, but plein air painting a tire swing wasn't it. My dangerousness drifted away, she allowed that was a fine picture, and I could stay.