The way I see things.

I am standing on top of a hill looking down on acres of crimson nearly ready to bloom. The clear blue sky is a backdrop for a regal Mt. Hood still covered with snow that glows a soft cadmium red. The fir trees separate the distant hills from the patterned fields of grass seed, grapes, and grain with barns and silos that glint in the sunlight. One pond is right center and the other borders a stand of timber. Maples and alders cast their shadows across the pasture and it is hard to see where one ends and the other begins.

Ok, breathe. Decide. I can't paint all of it. “You can't paint a novel only a poem,” said one wise instructor. I choose to paint the main pond with the poppies running down the fence line between the grapes and blue berries. Tomorrow I will do the crimson against the mountain.