(Artist's note: these paintings are in progress still.) In the high meadows, where spring and winter meet like old friends hesitating at a doorway, two finches made their home. Tiny things, really—smaller than a whisper slipping past your lips—but crowned in petals of dusk-pink so vivid you’d swear the sky had dripped its last rose of evening onto their heads. I know their names are Sima and Élio, though the valley creatures just call them the Rosy-Crowned Hearts.

Each dawn they’d wake together in a nest woven of grass and moss, tucked into a gnarled juniper clinging to a cliff’s rim. I can still see the snow patches far below, stubborn as old promises, and the brave little wildflowers poking through. The finches would hop twig to twig, offering their duet to the waking world: “Here we are… we’re alive… we still believe in morning.” Short breaths of song, but somehow enough to stir the whole meadow.

Seasons passed in that gentle rhythm—gather seeds, bob heads at noon, snuggle close when the light slid behind rocky peaks. Their love felt enormous, given their size: a fierce assurance that come storm or deep freeze, they’d face it side by side.

Then came that autumn when a shadow swept in. A cold prince—eyes like frozen lakes, words sharp as icicles—declared joy forbidden. Trees stiffened to marble; leaves turned to crystal; even the river forgot how to laugh. It was in the first frozen morning that Sima felt Élio’s small heart tremble next to hers. From their perch they peered down at a valley turned to silver stone, and knew escape meant losing everything they loved.

“If we fly away,” Élio whispered, breath pluming in the cold air, “we’ll lose this place—our home.”

Sima nodded, feathers rustling like a sigh. “We’ll stay. We’ll find warmth in our song.” ... continue reading