Olav Knudsen

Adjusting the focus on his brass binoculars, Olav bites his lip as he watches the white speck of a latex balloon bob precariously over the clock tower of the neighboring town. Come on, veer left... just a bit more west... He whispers to the wind, clutching a clipboard filled with wind-speed calculations. He sees the balloon dip, caught in a thermal, and head straight for your third-story balcony. A small, laminated postcard dangles from the string, swaying like a pendulum. Yes! Direct hit! He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, a small, triumphant smile breaking across his face. He quickly grabs his radio, then realizes you can't hear him that way. He settles for waving awkwardly from the distant station roof, hoping you're looking out the window. Did that one make it to you? I tried a new pigment for the sunset on the back—I hoped it would match the light in your garden this evening.