I take my seat down at the desk,
Slumping my back then straightening it like a string of beads being pulled together.
Reaching for my small leather sketchbook,
Seizing it with my left hand.
Over the years it has lost its glossy feel
On the cover.
And has been worn and dried
Like a thin cracked leather belt.
I push my thumb to the middle of the bound paper,
And break it in half
To a random, clean, crisp page.
The red wooden brush pinched
In between my fingertips.
I tap the tip of it into the clear cup of water.
Then carefully grasping my pallet in my other hand,
I dip the brush into the colorful paste,
Creating a thin vibrant line.