In the early afternoon, someone with a leaf blower clears the shavings of fall and winter off the bridge near my kitchen window. I can’t see them, but I can hear the rise and fall of a deep hum with each sweep of the sidewalk. I imagine the leaves jumping aside in bright oranges and reds, forgetting for a moment that it’s almost April.

After listening for a few minutes, my gaze drifts slowly from the window to my studio apartment. I see frames waiting to be hung and colored pencils begging for use; yarn projects drape the top of my bookshelf and I think about making great artwork. Eyebrows tightening, I find the window again. The sky is the color of an old art eraser, smudgy and grey, full of mistakes.

The leaf blower has stopped and I hear acoustic, sleepy music from my speakers. Back and forth my eyes go, between that sky and my studio, like the machine did as it swept side to side on the bridge. My body feels full with gravity in my high table chair, and not for the first time, I fear that another day will pass without making art.