The blank page sits
an empty field waiting
to be filled with splashes of color

Sometimes my brush flits across the page
splashes of color dance,
moving wings in the
music of the breeze.

Sometimes my brush sits still
in one spot,
waiting for imagination
to send it fluttering again.

The image forms, soaring with ideas
exploring new possibilities,
migrating into the unknown.

Zooming in on falcon's wings.
Destroying and killing sharp talons.
Trying to make a point,
But no point is made.

The wind is a playful spirit,
silently gliding to and fro
and hanging whispers in the leaves.
It tickles with invisible fingers,
then hides for its next surprise.

Stalking wildbeast,
a tightly wound spring waits for
an opportunity to strike.

Lightening flashes.  One wild beast
lies dead on the ground.

Feeling fulfilled, the lethal weapon
leaves.