About running small.  Over a surface made of paint.  Exhilerating lostness.  It is then I know texture.  Arms draped over a streaking swell.  Scritches and scumbles underfoot.  Are there this many colors in the sea?  Splattering like sparrows.  Am I getting the picture?  I lie down.  Cairns and edgings against my back.  What seemed soft – crisp and poky as briars.  What looked hard and smooth gives like dried glue.  I scurry in the trenches left by brush.  Spin through dips and curls.  A painting is a planet I inhabit.  Directed through the paths of subtlest vein.  To explore I engage.  Guard asks that I step away.

N Filbert