Chicken on the Frozen Genesee
Blurry pink splotches melt into blue and everything has a rounded edge. Soft almost, if not for the hardness underfoot and the ripple of not-too-distant watery patches of black. She seeks crossing, hopeful for solid footing, while he explains Chicken. She’s only played that with cars, stepping toes curled into the path of the oncoming before pulling back. Once pulled back not by her own volition. Hands clamped and yanked made her a chicken. Here the surface danger is slipping. The pair out there have enough skidding giddy steps to forget the underneath danger. The river muzzled over. Cold. Not cold enough to keep the edge intact long enough for anyone who might step too close to grasp the ice-ground before it cracks. And keeps cracking. Chicken. They step back. Do you feel that? he asks, and jumps again. What she stands on remembers it wants to flow. Tilt and return. //2018 // acrylic on canvas // 35" x 40"// |