Wet dank puddle pocked mud. Salt bleached strained wood planks. Hollow thuds as steps strike layered ground. Sweet sting of half decayed leaves as they unthaw against the new air. Clear white pieces of square salt unable to exist anywhere outside of itself, unabsorbed, foreign. The new air holding itself close to the surface of the ground, hoping to go unnoticed. It is the mix of beginning and ending, all compressed into a single middle that struggles loudly for attention.Where I Stand Sunday is an ongoing photo essay examining the different places I spend my life standing. Too often we take for granted the everyday places we spend our lives walking on. The ground we tread on has its own stories to tell.
1 comment:
These rains are washing away all the dirt and grime of the nasty remnants of winter. Yippee!
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