By late March, Spring had danced her merry jig in all corners of the village; she’d splashed fresh green over hedgerows packed with the chatter of excited sparrows. I gathered my paints and easel, sat beside that sweet scented hawthorn, the bluest of skies in the background.
She’d daubed pink onto recently clothed trees. Drops of yellow and drips of white down by the stream, flowing easily now with winter’s ice just a memory.
I sketched for hours in the warmth of the sun but didn’t use my brushes once: my palette unable to compete with those on nature’s canvas.