Hand Paint

A great pine tree — ancient, certain, unhurried — stands where cliff meets water,
its arms open wide against a crimson sun so full and round it feels like a heartbeat.
Below, a lone boatman moves across still water that holds the red sky perfectly in its arms,
as though the river itself wanted to keep this moment a little longer.
And nestled quietly at the base of the cliffs, up its worn stone steps — a small house.
Waiting.