Kenjiro Okazaki The Kingfisher flew vigorously, her wings strong. She had rested in the quiet ark, consuming provisions. Upward she snared, beyond clouds, into blue ether above. Suddenly, her gray plumage transformed to brilliant blue, colored by the clear heights she reached./Blood rushes to her head. Wrinkles form around her beak. Nearly exploding with anger, she snaps her tail-feathers and turns./Beak cutting wind, wings flat, it strides swiftly forward. Passersby dare not stop it, frightened by its unnatural quick gait./Come here, darling, please approach. Emerging from shadows, somersaulting, briefly gleaming in sunlight before returning to shade. "Viens mon gros loulo" echoes repeatedly. This is how doves cry-an ancestral call, as if something remains lodged in their delicate feathered throats., 2025 Acrylic on canvas
182 x 261 cm
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The Kingfisher flew vigorously her wings strong. She had rested in the quiet ark consuming provisions. Upward she snared beyond clouds into blue ether above. Suddenly her gray plumage transformed to brilliant blue colored by the clear heights she reached.Blood rushes to her head. Wrinkles form around her beak. Nearly exploding with anger she snaps her tail-feathers and turns.Beak cutting wind wings flat it strides swiftly forward. Passersby dare not stop it frightened by its unnatural quick gait.Come here darling please approach. Emerging from shadows somersaulting briefly gleaming in sunlight before returning to shade. Viens mon gros loulo echoes repeatedly. This is how doves cry-an ancestral call as if something remains lodged in their delicate feathered throats. by Kenjiro Okazaki contemporary artwork Painting
Kenjiro Okazaki The Kingfisher flew vigorously, her wings strong. She had rested in the quiet ark, consuming provisions. Upward she snared, beyond clouds, into blue ether above. Suddenly, her gray plumage transformed to brilliant blue, colored by the clear heights she reached./Blood rushes to her head. Wrinkles form around her beak. Nearly exploding with anger, she snaps her tail-feathers and turns./Beak cutting wind, wings flat, it strides swiftly forward. Passersby dare not stop it, frightened by its unnatural quick gait./Come here, darling, please approach. Emerging from shadows, somersaulting, briefly gleaming in sunlight before returning to shade. "Viens mon gros loulo" echoes repeatedly. This is how doves cry-an ancestral call, as if something remains lodged in their delicate feathered throats., 2025 Request Price & Availability
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