After a brilliant sail and some hot motoring when the wind failed, we anchored at one of our favorite Maine islands and got supper started. While my husband took the dog ashore for a run and a cooling wade, I looked at the impossibly tall spruces, perched on top of granite, anchored tenuously in the shallow layer of sort of dirt. They grow tightly packed, supporting each other through the fierce winter storms. And I decided to paint. Supper was very late. By the time I finished the painting, my husband had barricaded himself and the dog inside the cabin, leaving me outside with the mosquitoes, filling in all the dark bits frantically before the sun set and I couldn't see what I was painting. As it was, the light was so low that I had to guess when mixing the colors. I had to wait for morning to see if I got what I wanted. I took the photo of the painting in front of the spruces then.