Spring field

When it gets a little warmer, the sky of the northern countries is on the verge of spring, And the nights drive black horses To the east of the sun and to the west of the moon. When the rivers sigh in captivity of the banks, And the sky splits on the stones of the rapids, And the dark curls of wooded hills Curl over the endless road.

These lines from the song "Royal Hunt" played in Marinas headphones when she went out early in the morning for a walk to the spring field. The wind carried the spicy fresh smell of young flowers, the easel and paints pulled the shoulder with a pleasant burden. She knew for sure that this day would be forever sealed on canvas. True magic.