The final picture has brewed for over a year, from the quick ink sketch to playing with Gouache. There is also a short attempt at words to go with it.
With a flick of a wing feather, the raven threw the daylight up. He threw the all of it; the tightknit, rolled up, scrunched ball that it was; threw the dayglow knot of it up and into the darkling sky.
Slowly, greasily, bit by bit, the darkness thinned out, split and spread away into nothingness – till only the white of the light and the blue of the sky remained.
Stories from the Hills 