The tide is going out across the marsh, and the channels it leaves behind shine like poured silver. One of them curls toward us in a long S-shape, bending around islands of reed and grass, holding the last light of the evening on its surface.
The reeds have turned for the season. They stand in thick clumps of copper, rust and gold, bristling and dense, and in the low light their tips glow as if lit from within. Between them the mud gleams dark and wet, and everywhere the water reflects the sky in broken pieces.
On the right, two grey herons stand in the shallows. They are perfectly still, long necks folded, heads tilted toward the water, waiting with a patience that seems almost endless. Their reflections hang beneath them in the channel, two quiet doubles, and they are the only living things in the scene. It is clear they have done this every evening for a long time.
Above, the sky is crowded with heavy clouds in plum, mauve and slate, rolling in layers toward the horizon. Low down, they part around a narrow band of apricot light, the sun's last word before night, and that same warm band appears again in the water at our feet. Along the horizon a dark line of trees holds everything in place.
The painting is made with a palette knife, the paint laid on thick and pushed into ridges and peaks. The reeds are built from short, stiff strokes that stand up from the surface, while the water is smoothed flat and glossy. Up close it is all texture and colour; step back, and the marsh settles into a deep, glowing calm.