That familiar sound,Of the sweet scratches of delight,
Falling sometimes towards the earth,
My fingers would grasp another worn down stick,
Permeating the flesh,
With that earth tone pigment,
Those beautiful digits become the tools,
And work in unison,
As the moments proceed,
Another image is realized,
We all know in our hearts where each sketch will go,
More crosshatching and blending,
Tiny indications,
Larger impressions,
A charcoals delight,
I am contented with the results,
Also the muskrat living in the wheel well felt the same.
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