Sunday morning my daughter and I headed west in search of a new place to paint. I exited the freeway at Tampa on a hunch and noticed a park on the map, called Wilbur Tampa Park. Instead of finding green grass and picnic benches, a tall cliff greeted us with a wooden-fenced trail around its belly. I drove around to where the top of the cliff was level with the road and parked. The view of the valley took a while to take in: tract houses below, the valley with a thin layer of morning haze still on it, the mountains to the south and west, the gaping blue sky with streaked with clouds and contrails. I could have at least made three paintings there that day but had to settle on one.