Passages
“The barbed wire leans towards me from three feet above, not even daring me or anyone else to go over. The opening is on the east side near the ground. Chain link cut, pulled back and just big enough for someone to crawl through. Street artists enter carrying dreams of a concrete canvas and backpacks full of spray paint. I enter carrying visions of art and a backpack full of camera gear.”
“It is calm. The warm morning light brushes the highest ridges of granite above me. I can hear the first rush of wind descend through thick forest and into the meadow I now find myself in. Every few minutes everything moves, trees rustle and grass blades dance, and then stillness…”
Nature’s garden, wild with flowers.
“As the paintbrush palette dances with a pose from an evening primrose, the passing fancy of an iris grows. Nearby, little pink elephants trump their noses and chiming bells toll “look at me”… And there it stood, a noble monkshood, bowing down to meet the queen’s crown, contemplating tea, crumpets and fairy trumpets. Me, I’d rather smell a phlox or a pair of miners socks. Feeling a bit silly… thinking I could kiss the pond lily or go cruisin’ with a black eyed susan, and I hear “bless you, Mr. sneezeweed”, then a whisper, “forget-me-not”, from the flower’s sister.”
“Everything here ebbs and flows with weather and tide. The dock resembles bone, beneath my feet. A small harbor skiff, well used, and unclean white, rests, moored to the dock. The gentle tug of tide keeps the boat moving. The knot and rope keep it here. The tide flows out and fog settles in. Quietly I wonder, how far out has this little boat been?”
“A new day, as the light of a dawn touches sky then earth. The fence line extends beyond the last horizon I can see. The posts and wire seeming an endless stance and march, past dry fields, forgotten trucks, and bent barns. They begin and end, somewhere. The only folks that truly know live here.”
“I silently know trees. They embody true discourse of unspoken language. All things find refuge within their arms. This day I walk through tall pine and fir… last year, fire scarred the earth, but the trees, quietly dead, still strong and understood, stand near. The rain falls softly, quietly”
“Through the camera, the textured, rhythm on the dune surface occupies the image space. I watch small sand grains carried from a calm wind, bounce over the rippled-crests, only to settle in the quiet space between. Waiting for sunrise and the the first brush of warm light, my gaze turns west. Successive layers pattern the sandstone wall above me. These two episodes join in thought, one in real time, the other two hundred million years ago. Feeling reverence, the sunrise touches me and I release the shutter.”
“I walk with thankfulness within a canvas of color, line and shape. Looking up, blue, white fill the space beyond. Saturated hues massage my visually soulful mind, between a summer’s life and winters dream. Color is the symbolism and nod for a change in season. In the natural world, no other transformation is more significant. Autumn is the celebration!”