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,
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.