Flight for Safety. The words are written small in pale blue, up in the left corner above the bird, the way you would write a title on the back of an envelope. Flight in both senses: the bird that flies, and the running away. The painting does not pick one. The figure in the middle is black, outlined in thick white, built more like a totem than a body. A rounded head with bars for a face and two small cream windows for eyes. White bars down the middle, a pink line winding through them, a small red heart set off to one side. One arm is up and the hand is open, the fingers striped black and white like an X-ray. Above the head a yellow halo is scribbled in oil stick, loose, gone round more than once. At the bottom the body sits on a white block crossed out in red, with a black seam scratched down the middle like stitches. On the left a blue bird comes in close, all scribble, one dark eye ringed in teal and red, beak open toward the raised hand. Hard to say if it has come to carry it off or to ask for somewhere to land. A chalk-grey ladder runs off the elbow down into the dark, and the dark down there is brushed in long blue-black strokes, like wind. On the right, in a blue room of scrawl, the other one waits. A box for a head, one white eye, a zigzag on top, and a grid of square white teeth. Grinning. It has been there the whole time. Then the red. It sweeps in from the lower right like a flag or a wing, and it is written all over in white paint pen, over older writing that still shows through. Some of it you can read. Love is patient, love is kind. We live by faith, not by sight. God is faithful. Even in loss. Most of it you cannot, which is how it goes. Like Fear No Evil, it carries scripture in handwriting. Nobody in the picture is safe yet, and the thing on the right is still smiling.