“But snow days reveal that we like and need each other too. In many cases, just a few hours of freedom from work and the consequential forced isolation in a house or apartment results in the rare release of our inner children. Wide eyed and innocent again, kids of all ages bundle up and join together to play like dogs or otters in what seems to be a pure white blanket of redemption.”
Over 10,000 concerned Oregonians marched in the streets of Portland to constructively express their opposition to the war. The following day, conservative media hosts chose to focus on the radical activities of a few black-clad, masked and anonymous anarchists who attempted to impose their agenda of chaos over the wishes of the march’s 90 co-sponsoring organizations. To witness the incredible disconnect between an event and the way it was covered by the media was to learn why it is so important to preserve independent news sources.
“standing on a cusp of time
forwards and backwards bending out of sight
making as much sense as
a calendar to a mayfly”
“The flash of silver, the splash of their tails and the play of line all contribute to a sense of excitement and … familiarity… and perhaps some small consolation that I am at least, with the help of my friends, able to out-think shad.”
From early June to the middle of August, I seemed to be able to experience spring over and over again as more and more hiking options opened up at higher altitudes.
The sun’s slow migration to higher latitudes gradually encouraged Mt. Hood to push aside its winter blankets…
…so long stifled wildflowers might burst into bloom like fireworks…
…and trickles of ice-water might bring abundant life to a landscape born of fire.
By August, back in the Willamette Valley, the exuberance of early spring has long been waning and plant life begins to bow to the unrelenting summer sun. I’ve seen dandelions wither and twist like this in response to certain poisons, and I suspect a similar influence here. I know this is not a technically proficient photograph, yet the graceful, perhaps choreographed curves and postures of the thistle bring to mind a melancholic ballet of death or a wistful longing for life.
The cycle of the seasons may be the inspiration underlying our stories of life after death. In this accidental image of shadows cast by the long rays of a retreating sun, the presence of birds is implied, but not anywhere confirmed.
An icy wind blows inland off the ocean and two gulls hunker down for an uneasy night, one keeping an eye on the progress of the waves, and one pondering the activities of a colossal two legged primate with a tripod. They seem to be power napping at best. By morning they will look cold and gray and even a little bit stiff, but their associates will have been joining them through the night and by sunrise, they will, as part of a great chorus, squawk and squeal together in a ritual to greet another day.