Oil, 4 x 4 inches
Conifer needles quiver when the White-throats sing and carry their tunes like sugar to my tongue. Spring is alright when these birds arrive. And now, on the backside of the solstice as birds fall silent when sleep is near, every now and then a White-throat pierces the air with one last song. Like frogs in the springtime, their tunes I’ll never tire.