To wonder how, the cream of night, unfolds, to perception. Shadows of twigs playing on her skin still under the morning sun. Her attitude shifts to the proud. She s rising from the needled ground, her head up to the clouds if there were any. Her eyes floating over the horizon ignoring the trees before her sight, a valley perhaps, if one is there. She s holding her shape with the dignity of ancient sculptures. There, the Native. - www.andreas-urstadt.net