They emerge from the ground, from soft crumbling loam, resting on hard rock. Steps on the forest floor, sinking into the humus, speak insistently of being, of presence, now here, now there. Children of the earth, rising before us, the paint clothes them, organizes them, lays them open to words. Blue, the sky or water; brown, flowing earth, light is white; speech is red. They open up to the horizon of their canvas, no mean achievement for beings destined simply to appear. Houses like dwellings; flashes of black and white, life passing by, trails of water across a rock, a river slipping beneath its own reflections. "We are waiting, but for what?"