a song

the music of this mist is such

that what can’t be seen,

can be felt and most certainly

will not be forgotten.

CYH No. 3

It was as if I beheld Queens,

in robes of dappled sunlight

through the January clouds.

the gateway

the feeling that you might end up somewhere else entirely,

depending on where you step,

to veer off trail is to find yourself losing yourself,

which, depending on who you ask,

can be lovely

or alarming.

the muse

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve photographed this dying tree. In some ways, it’s become my muse. On misty mornings, while faster things work to be settled, the birds, the air, the traffic from the highway, this tree is resolute. How is it weathering this? What changes has it made? Is it somehow thriving towards the end, despite the sharpness of the natural spire, that grows thiner and less dense each year? My gaze hits it often in mornings I feel frantic, needing to know it hasn’t fallen in the night. That, despite the decay, it’s still standing, doing its thing.

the midst

Peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.

~Unknown