House and Meadow

Near the place we stayed in Yosemite was this small house sitting on the edge of a meadow. I rode my rented bike to it and ate my lunch across the street where I could be like the house and survey my surroundings. Out of the oil pastel groove now, and remembering how the medium affects the message, or perhaps even more importantly, the observation itself. Eating the other half of my breakfast bagel, I studied the sweep of the open field, the strong but leaky edge of its definition. I needed a big luscious stick of something to make my version of the clearing in one fell swoop. Oils seemed just right but my colors are limited.