11"x 14" framed painting, acrylic on canvas - Monologue of the Goldfinch
 
I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies.
 
That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang once. Low and solemn.
 
The air smelled of crushed raspberries and the dark sweetness of wild strawberries. There was also the tart scent of red currants warmed by the sun, and a curious sweetness, like sugared violets dissolving on your tongue. Deep pink roses—heady and crushed velvet in the air—spilled their perfume across the courtyard, mingling with the syrupy breath of golden tulips curling at the edges.
 
I was perched in a ruffle of tulips, feathers bright against their blush. I wasn’t looking for a scandal—I never am. But then it happened.
 
 
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