Van Pelt Foto

I always come back. The horizon remembers. Home was never a house. I learned distance here. This horizon raised me.

Above it all, still, the light.

What else is there?

Early, early this morning; or: Late, late last night.

We all gotta live somewhere. Would you mind terribly if I lived here instead?

Luxury is silence.

This way.

Among the wheat

Every stem reaching in a slightly different direction

and somehow the whole thing still knows how to be a field.

All the small declarations of summer

arguing beautifully among themselves.

The city before morning,

when the lamps are still trying to explain themselves

and every building looks briefly unsure why it exists.

Somewhere above us, the weather gathers evidence.

Somewhere below, the streets keep quiet.

Water

trying very hard not to become a memory.

Country Life

Just slowly being returned to the field.

One or two might slip by

while the rest of us stay exactly where we were left.

Here it is.

The small green proof that light still knows where to find things.

View from my balcony