It was only a morning scribble—written fast to make her feel, to inspire thought and invitation to action of the art, raw and unrefined as the give and share had been.
She read the page. He read her eyes, their widen light and follow-shade, temper of first flash-feel; her smile that showed, further share and see and reveal of whole of her opened mystery, as she rose from rest in the half-light shade and stool of island’s recess in the room.
Fixed to her mystery, open shown, he watched her every move, each slow step and body’s sway to hold and stand and wait, framed in window light. Shadow of her body before brilliance of the sun; strain of his heart, swell of his hope as waited, radiant, for strike of the full-rise sun: living of the art.