Beaverdam and Lynn Cove in Purple November
Down in this quiet valley, hidden by the grey maple skeletons and evergreen pines is a little brick and white-paneled house where I’ve spent much of the past quarter century. A little house stuffed with intense spiritual ideals and pent-up children. Laughing, yelling, praying, crying, sleeping, eating, reading, watching.
But from this view from the buzzard’s rock, you hardly notice the chaos of love and pain and devotion occurring down below. There is a lonely hawk floating patiently in a breathe of wind that moves the white mist above. In slow motion the ancient grey hills roll into the distant blue like silent ocean waves. Was it all really happening? Have the past twenty-some years truly gone by? What memories do the mountains and the sky and the hawk remember?
9 by 14 inches. oil on masonite board.
Available.
