Painting Dark

He took his time preparing the panel.  It was white, a large square.  He would paint on it sometime soon—something.  At the moment, however, he saw nothing there, only clean space.  It seemed as if there would never be anything there.  But he had been fooled by empty canvas before.
Unsure, he stared at it.  The panel gazed back at him under the studio lights, as expressionless as a white wall.
“It’s late.”
He rubbed his eyes.  Perhaps in the morning he would begin his painting.  He picked up a pencil and put it back down.  He turned away.

In bed, in the dark, he thought about the empty square.  He tried to sleep, but every dream ended in a blank wall.  His visions were white and dimensionless, with no repose.

Eventually he must have slept, for it took a heavy beating against the window screen to wake him.  He lay rigidly for a few moments, then heard rustling and scratching.
“There is nothing to be afraid of.”
But he wondered how strong the screen was.

Rising, he approached the window, trying to see in the darkness.  There was only the sound, and degrees of blackness.
Shapes formed.  He brought his face close to the screen, and was able to make out large black wings, and a round eye fixed on his.
The raven tumbled awkwardly against the window, dropped and flapped back again.  It clambered into the eaves trough and ducked under it, hanging.  As it clawed for a hold, it batted at the screened opening with one wing.
The window was a black square in the night room, and the raven, blacker, filled it.

The artist hesitated, still staring.
“It wants in.”
He could open the window.  Or the bird could pass through, one wing and its head emerging first, like a dark birthing.  He reached over and put his hand on the latch.  He thought of the white panel in the other room, waiting for the artist’s thought.  His hand looked detached and pale against the night, sliding the screen open.

He saw his painting begin to form.  The panel darkened.  A somber shape flew out of it, enlarging to fill the square, but never escaping.
A pattern emerged in deepest grays, red eye gleaming.

The next morning, the man woke exhausted from the night and his vision.  He remembered.  He went immediately to the studio to look at the panel on the easel.

He was afraid that the painting would not be there.