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Behind my parent's house, a big easel sits on the patio overlooking the fields. There is no canvas and no paint, just an open wooden structure that I look through to the landscape. It frames the ever-changing painting of the valley and misty blue hills. Move slightly and the painting will be of an old greenhouse, grazing cows and calves, or a neighbor's barn. Move again and it will paint you a beautifully twisted oak or rows of fall-orange grape vines. A white-tailed kite may hover over the field looking for prey and then be painted over with a blue heron flying slowly by. At night the valley fills up with fog, washing fuzzy grey hues over the greens and browns. At night, the sky is painted solid black but with billions of meticulously placed dots of silver, clusters of them so close they look like a milky blur.

art (21), farm (12), potter-valley (65)

Potter Valley (43)

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