The February sun filled the space once again. I can’t see a thing. Tears stream down my cheeks. I walk with the dogs blindly, praying in my soul that none of us steps in any shit. It’s a paradox, but nothing irritates a dog owner more than having to wash their dog after a walk—scrubbing off the dung of another dog.
We walk, yet I feel as if I am in paradise. As if I were floating. If not for the stinging frost on my cheeks, it would be almost charming. I close my eyes; nothing distracts me anymore. My pack leads the way.
On the way back, I am greeted by a flock of rooks. Snow and anthracite. They look proud in their feathered breeches. They contrast wonderfully with the glare of the sun; their feathers appear blue now. Two of them stroll like old men with their hands folded behind their backs. They are perfectly indifferent. Juggling the leashes, I manage to handle my phone with one hand and capture a photo for later. I hope I’ll have enough time to at least sketch them before the snow melts again.
Rooks on Snow, 50x70cm, charcoal on paper, 2026