This is what remains when the artist quietly hides behind the horizon.
The work was finished, but he had left without waiting for applause. The paints lingered, thick, rich, applied boldly and without hesitation. The clouds continued to live their own lives, no longer needing the one who had painted them. The river below played along, returning a double portion of this painting, slightly softer, slightly deeper. And the birds added movement, small, quick, almost imperceptible, and utterly silent.
I don't remember what I stared at the longest, the sky or the water. At some point, it stopped feeling like just a sunset. It was a state, carefully composed of color and silence. A painted sky made my evening.
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