Yellowstone, 1995 Or Thereabouts

I can hear the water, a giggle almost, in the small cold spring by which I sat that foggy morning, sketchbook, pen, and watercolors in hand. A weed with a single white flower grew from the innards of a half submerged, humus-bound log alive with neon-green moss. A brilliant web spun by a tiny jewel-orange spider laced the flower to the log. I dipped my brush in the spring water, washed it around in the appropriate colors, painted the scene as best I could, never coming close to capturing the brilliance of flower, moss and spider. Only approximations of nature are possible.