The Narrative Image

"Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt..." William Allingham Wind whipping up white-caps on the Columbia . Obstinate trees do what they can to hold on to their leaves. ...but the overall trend is obvious. Like a universe of stars rushing to universal heat death, leaves twinkle in the wind, blown away in chaos and disorder. I walk the banks of the Sandy river and capture a subset of a beautiful exodus. Leaves carried away in the current of a rain swollen river. Stems like bones, join rotting salmon in rich silt deposits, perhaps to become fossils...perhaps to see the sun again in some future epoch. Leaves performing one last dance ... ...in the water of life... ...in dappled fractured light of a waning sun... ...beaten against the rocks... ...to sink, to decompose, to cease to be a leaf

It’s a paradox. Bars and fences and various gates are clearly intended to keep people out. So why is it that they tend to look like invitations? They scream, “Hey! There’s extremely interesting valuable stuff in here!” I glanced over to the Monkey-cam and shrugged, “Might as well check it and see if it’s really locked.” But it turned out it was really locked. Just around the corner was an abandoned work shed with one of the most intimidating danger signs I’ve ever read. “This,” I said, turning toward the Monkey-cam, “looks like a job for the Monkey-cam.” The Monkey-cam studied my face. I could almost hear the little wheels spinning in his head. He looked at the mine shaft again, looked at the danger-sign graphics, and reluctantly reached into his pack for his crash helmet while doing a nervous little potty dance. Trembling, the Monkey-cam cinched his chin strap. I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. “I’m joking, you little dork.” I finally confessed. We went back to peer throu...