The Plite of an Artist

the sun is set in it's afternoon light. It warms the pavment and the grass. The leaves on the willow dance in the wind and glow with vibrant green life. The pencil makes a satisfying scratching sound as it makes sure strokes on the paper. she sighs frusterated and grips the earser to remove yet another misslayed line. The shavings scatter in the wake of her breath and she brushes the survivors to the ground. she starts again tryign to see exactly what it is that just isn't right with her creation. she holds it close to her face, she holds it back, she trys a differant pencil newly sharpened. After several failed atempts she moves on, determined to come back to it later, she works on another corner of the peice. Then with a final smudge of her finger and a brush of her hand she belives she it is done. But upon holding it back for a final over look she notices that still something isn't quite right. she turns it this way and that and but to no avail. Finally she shuts her sketch book, "whatever is wrong with it can wait until tomorrow" she thinks to herself. she gathers her papers and places them neatly inside the cover and them lays back to watch the tree sway above her. when the sticky wet tounge of her dog suddenly greets her with a slobbery kiss. she rubs the silly pooch behind the ears after wiping the unwelcome christening on her sleave. Satisfied that her afternoon has been well spent she returns to the house to remove the battle scars of her afternoon drawing from her face and arms. and gradually the charcol and graphite begin to disapear down the drain as the sharp smell of the soap makes her feel clean and awake. today is a good day...