She was at work on her patch of street in Florence early in the morning and she kept at her art late into the afternoon. She worked from an image on paper, but the bright blue of the backdrop, the intent gaze of the eyes, the garland of flowers, all of it was of her own making. She shaded a cheekbone; she touched up a strand of hair. I stood and marveled, not only over the beauty of her work but more so that her canvas was the road and that she worked in chalk and pastels. An evening's rainfall, the morning dew, a street cleaner, many passing feet would undo what she had created. Still, she picked up a pale yellow and let her work unfold before us, if only for a day.
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