Paint from Life, said Caravaggio

With this, the final play of sunlight flickers through the leaves, casting shadow on my rooms.

Two Magpies clamor like machine guns at a large crow that threatens their nest.

This sunlight shining on my windows casts reflections on the other side of the building, which emphasize and exaggerate the flaws in the vintage glass, striking the building with strange, spherical shapes.

The Still Life reflected a life that had become still.

The Turkish border is swollen with refugees from neighboring Syria.

This morning as I laid on my back in the park I imagined Beckett, imagining himself as company, as he laid on his back in the dark.

What shadows play on the fabric of a tent in Sudan, as the government considers withdrawing troops, what sounds heard outside that tent, and what memories of a twenty year period of war do they conjure?

Scraps of papers lay about with titles of films written on them. In another color ink are written the dates for this month’s performances and meetings.

There are two guitars, a banjo, an accordion, a violin, two wind instruments and a few percussive objects. The saz is broken, its body cracked and without strings.

As the sun sets, the crow has been chased away, a couple makes love, unseen but heard, and the woman across the courtyard hangs clean fabric in her window.

The authorities made a list of items found in Caravaggio’s house. There were empty canvases of differing sizes, and little to no furniture. Paint, but no brushes, a large mirror and a cabinet containing twelve books. No one bothered to note the titles.