I see color, I have it in my hand, yet the painting material is not fluid, does not run through my fingers, the earth does not soak it up. The separated thread falls freely, carried gently in the air. I see how puffy balls are formed, the wind rocks them, one way then another. I scatter another scrap, slowly the form of concentration takes me to another realm, building tension. This anxiety grows the closer I get to the last threads in my hand. But there is no end. A painter’s palette is created around me. The wind keeps blowing the balls of thread, the blacks, yellows, browns, sky blues, pinks, reds, violets, and whites join together. Everything is in motion, the sky, trees and their shadows and the emerging painter’s palette, moving one way, then the next.