The Sky And The Grass

Since I tried to write about the fields by the side of the road the other day I've been noticing grass, and fields.  Grass is really hard to describe, I discover.  There are too many kinds, and I don't have the words to distinguish one kind from the other very precisely.  Patterns and clumps form when you're looking carefully -- you see differences in height, differences in seed pattern at the top of the stalk.  Differences in the way some kinds blow around in the wind.  And differences in color -- but it's all different shades of green and brown and beige and reddish-pink.  For now I'm giving up on describing grass.

So as I drove home today I looked at the sky instead.  Today it was a washed out blue, hazy, with the faintest outline of clouds.  I thought about watercolors, but realized that if I were using watercolors to try to paint this sky, I would start with a very faint wash of blue and I'd go over that with the slightest hint of yellow and the slightest tinge of hazy pink.  Then I'd use a little bit of black and maybe some purple, mixed with a lot of water, to make some grey clouds.  And no matter what ended up on the paper, what would look the most like the sky would be the cloudy water I was dipping the paintbrush into.  Thick and cloudy with blue and purplegrey and a bit of yellow-pink, all mixed around and a little bit dirty.  And then tip the glass over and drip it onto the skin of your arm in great big drops and you'll approximate the summer rain that just started to fall.

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