A single tree trunk and a few passing forms—a bird, its shadow, a rabbit in mid-leap—inhabit a shallow, golden field. The composition is notably compressed: depth is flattened, and the few visual elements press toward the surface, heightening the tension between stillness and motion. This compression invites close looking; each mark feels essential, pared down to the barest gesture.

Reichman’s measured restraint reflects his lifelong engagement with Zen and haiku, both of which emphasize awareness within simplicity. Like a haiku, the painting captures a fleeting instant that resonates beyond its brevity. The ochre ground becomes an expanse of concentrated time, and the silhouettes—at once ordinary and symbolic—record the quiet passage of life “across the road.”

What might first appear as minimal narrative unfolds into a meditation on perception itself. Space is reduced to presence; motion becomes memory. In this concentrated field, mindfulness is embedded in every contour and interval, turning the act of seeing into a contemplative practice.