It's been a few years since I called a construction site my home…

The flat gravel lot, an unassuming building…

The few blossoms left grow brighter, as if to squeeze every last drop of summer until we cry out "Enough!" …

A lot of hours go into a performance…

Hard to tell what the theme of a day might end up being…

There are things we took for granted, and I reach for them still…

It's not that I go against laws, well, not really…

The spent blooms of lady's mantle, not so great, anyway, we fret as to when to cut them…

The edges of gardens. I swear by them…

I'd hoped to help Glo put up her last couple cords of firewood, and I did, but throwing firewood is an inexact science ...

I was the one with bad knees, not really first tier for expedition hiking…

I worked my day shift at the top of the valley, where the two dirt roads converge. Monarch Hill and Spring roads in Tunbridge, a neighborhood so full of character; I won't easily let it go…

One of my very best friends and I do not agree on current events…

It was worth it just to see it, hear stories about it, and touch the water…

Looking down, it was clearly too steep to scramble…

A bunch of sticks caught up on rocks, it's a lot of what you see when you're looking…

The clouds push in, the trees are in constant motion…

Nothing much happened, it's what didn't happen that I appreciate…

You go there to jump off the cliffs…

It's hard to believe that anything we knew about our life as it was, still is…