Details
My daily walk takes me up the bluff to the west of town and out of the valley through which the St. Croix River meanders. The road turns into a sand track there and winds through what was once an oak savanna prairie. It was early June, and the season’s new leaves danced overhead in the fresh breeze like an animated window of stained glass. I walked through pools of light and shadow. A large bird flying through the forest canopy brought my wandering mind back into focus. When it crossed the track in front of me, I identified it as a barred owl, which is unusual to see at midday. It turned to look at me as it passed, landed on a fallen tree, and faced me. As I came to a stop, it hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, all the time keeping me in its gaze.
While we watched one another, I was overcome by a wave of grief, which passed and was replaced by a sense of peace. Not knowing why, I said, “Thank you.” She watched me a few seconds longer, then flighted, wove herself into the forest, and was gone.
When I returned home, Lisa was waiting for me on the back porch with a glass of iced tea and the difficult news that my mother had passed. “I know,” I said, “she stopped to visit.”
I went to the studio and began this painting, not knowing if I’d ever complete it. The canvas has sat unfinished since that day in 2021.
It’s finished now.
This oil painting on stretched canvas measures 30 x 24 inches.
