An ocean of clouds called
today, blanketing the canyon
with purple. Clouds,
like theatrical curtains,
parted over the mesas
to reveal an aperture:
white clouds
outlined in goldfoil.

Only a few drops
reached the overhang
where we sat.
Dipping brushes
in water, we stirred
puddles of paint,
mixing our pigments to paint
flesh-toned rocks
in the canyon.

Water never quite brushed
the rock, rain never arrived,
but our brushes touched water
scattering drops on sand.

My brush
hovered
over the canvas
suspended like a hawk
scouting
hungry to explore
a country of his own.