Crooked tree trunks resist the frame’s order.
They rise from swamp water like the spindled
arms of some chthonic creature
pulled from the shadows concealed
in the mud of our unconscious.
In the foreground, she looks behind, long neck
and thin legs rendered in a swept stroke
I imagine he drew with studied elegance,
resisting a quick flourish. Avian,
his hands moved like tiny white birds.
No kinetic frenzy on canvas, this life
study reveals intent in color, a rendered
ancestor of lizards that once tread
an earth not so different from the swamped
background. Now, a burst of purple and blue,
white filigree, feet so light they don’t leave
imprints in sand. The colors pull the eyes
and resolve the muddy past, where the heron
could take flight, were it real, to escape.
This story appears in the March 2026 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.