DAVID HASKINS

A JOURNAL ENTRY BY DAVID HASKINS

Night.

In the darkest hour before dawn, the bright moon, a soccer ball of glaring light, is caught in the black tangle of the locust tree. As the sky morphs into blues, the ball sifts slowly downward, deeper into the trap the branches have sprung, all the while fading with the night’s darkness, until it is merely a thin transparent skin, helplessly dying in the growing light. A morning breeze stirs the branches awake. A plumped up squirrel skips out from behind a high crux, flashes its tail and creeps upside down toward the earth. Waves of new pink rimmed clouds are drifting in. By the minute, the window’s palette changes with the breaking day. The slothful moon informs the painting like a memory.