The Artist and The Writer

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They sat there in companionable silence, staring out across the field toward the sunset. The sun was long gone, hidden behind the tall hills, but a deep red and rich orange poured over the hill and rose to meet with the darkening sky. An effect so magical that it caused both of them to read for their back packs. And as if some unspoken idea had passed through them each pulled out their own notebook. His was an art notebook which was already halfway full with his detailed drawings. Hers use to be a journal but had turned into a bunch of papers, filled with her creative worlds, duck taped together.
Together they flipped opened their notebooks and took up a pencil. "Ready?" She asked him, a smirk playing across her face.
"Set." He replied and she couldn't help but to check if he too was smirking. He was.
"Go!" They said at the same time and silence filled the space between them once again, save for the sounds of pencil against paper.



Sunset

The sun dips low behind the hills

So far beyond where I sit now

But large enough to seem able to touch

As it's colorful light appears to seep

In deep red and glowing orange

Over the tree tops and up into the sky

A sky with a fading blue to night

And even though I feel a breeze

So soft and gentle like a caress

There is no chill sending shivers

Only this bubble of content



"Done." They say in unison as they turn to face the other with a grin.

Another silent conversation passed through them and they traded notebooks. Each handling the bundle with care as they examined the others work.

"One of your best poems." He comments, his voice a whisper. "I'm still wondering how you're able to describe exactly what I'm drawing without being able to see it."

"You got the sunset just perfect." She remarked as she looked the sketch over. "Even without color it's breath taking."

"You're not so bad yourself." She looked up from his notebook and met his eyes. She wasn't sure if he was talking about her poem or not.

"Thanks." She tried for another smirk but could only summon up a small shy smile.

The notebooks were returned and gingerly stuffed into backpacks. And together they sat in companionable silence as they let the world around them come to life. What may seem plain and ordinary to come could always become an enchanting place of inspiration to another. And who better to make an interesting place than an artist and a writer, both having a taste for the grass on the other side of the fence in life. So as he took her hand in his they both unknowingly wondered about the next place they would describe.





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